Harry Potter and the Ticket Backwards
by viciousmouse
Summary: When the most powerful magics collide due to Harry Potter's desperate, last sacrifice, he creates for himself a chance to fix up the wrongs in his world. Yet going back in time isn't everything that he expected: Voldemort is a threat, but it is Harry himself who no longer fits comfortably in the world. Time has changed him, he just hasn't yet figured out how.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any part of that world. Recognisable sections of text have been borrowed from J.K. Rowling, most obviously large chunks of text from "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" which is in accordance with copyright law in my country.**

 _You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest...one hour…_

Harry struggled invisibly down the stone steps of Hogwarts in a kind of daze. The last few hours haunted him like a nightmare: vivid flashes of memory swirled in his mind, seeming more real to him that the quiet substance of the reality in front of him.

The flashes of spell light and hoarse shouting of the Hogwarts defenders resounded in his mind as though they were still there, and the morbid silence of Voldemort's grace period seemed insubstantial in comparison. The castle hallways were silent. Portraits hung still and empty, their inhabitants having abandoned their frames for other happenings. Shrapnel scattered the floor, bent pieces of suits of armour destroyed in Hogwarts defence; shards of stone littering the ground, the aftermath of deadly spell work. All the warmth and life of the castle was gathered in the Great Hall behind him, and Harry's mind shied away from the image of Ginny's face, red and splotchy from crying, Hermione's arms wrapped tight around her body; Ron shocked and pale, leaning against Percy as though the substance of his brother could shelter him from the truth; Mrs Weasley's cheerful face, drawn and haggard.

Fred. Remus. Tonks. Others he had not had time to recognise. Pale and peaceful, and as still as the grave that had claimed them. His mind shuddered back from the thought.

Because, Harry thought, his mind moving sluggish and shocky, wasn't he going to join them soon in death? Wasn't it right, that after all his mistakes, his naivety and stupidity, that he would pay with his death? The visions he had had up in Dumbledore's office no longer shook him; they had the immutability of truth. Of course Dumbledore had had a plan. Dumbledore's goodness, Dumbledore's enmity with Voldemort and everything he stood for would obviously lead him to this conclusion.

And Snape. Snape's love for his mother would naturally make him the man Harry had known: embittered and twisted and tragic. But even then, it seemed a bitter draft to swallow, that Dumbledore would ask Snape to take his mentor's life. And in the end he had even taken his purpose, for to plan the death of Lily's son must have been torture for Snape indeed.

Surely there were many who had suffered great sacrifice for Dumbledore's plan to work. Yet what was Harry's life, when it could save these hundreds of others? If Dumbledore could die for this cause, how could Harry turn away from the Greater Good? If Snape could betray his childhood love, how could Harry not offer his life as a sacrifice to the cause? How neat, how elegant, not to waste any more lives, but to give the dangerous task to the boy who had already been marked for slaughter, and whose death would not be a calamity, but another blow against Voldemort.

And Dumbledore had known that Harry would not duck out, that he would keep going to the end, even though it was _his_ end, because he had taken trouble to get to know him, hadn't he? Dumbledore knew, as Voldemort knew, that Harry would not let anyone else die for him now that he had discovered it was in his power to stop it. The images of Fred, Lupin and Tonks lying dead in the Great Hall forced their way back into his mind's eye, and for a moment Harry could hardly breathe: Death was impatient…

His mind was already removing itself from the present, cloaking itself in numbness in preparation of Harry's sacrifice. Yet his body was not behaving: his blood flowed strongly, his heart beat faster, his hands shook a little with tension or anticipation or fear. How strange that his body fought so strongly for life, when his death was the only sure thing Harry could cling to. His mind swept up, distancing itself from the physical, and yet the beat of his heart thundered strongly in his ears.

Unlike the castle hallways, muffled sounds and thumps could be heard now he was outdoors. Shadows moved about in the predawn gloom, bending and lifting heavy loads that Harry did not want to think about too deeply.

He saw a figure he thought he recognised – it was good Neville had grown stronger, matured from the nervous boy he had once been. Neville would make sure the others would go on without him.

A thought struck Harry out of nowhere, and he pulled of his cloak with a sudden urgency.

"Neville."

"Blimey, Harry, you nearly gave me heart failure!"

Harry might have once smiled at the look on Neville's face, but he was beyond that now, wasn't he? Humour and strength were for the living. Harry only needed determination now. The thought might have shown on his face.

"Where are you going, alone?" Neville asked suspiciously into the silence.

"It's all part of the plan," said Harry, his mind dragged back into reality for this last, needed conversation. "There's something I've got to do. Listen - Neville -"

"Harry!" Neville looked suddenly scared. "Harry, you're not thinking of handing yourself over?"

"No," Harry bluffed calming, the word coming to his lips with an ease lies never had before. "'Course not...this is something else. But I might be out of sight for a while. You know Voldemort's snake, Neville? He's got a huge snake...calls it Nagini…"

"I've heard, yeah...what about it?"

"It's got to be killed. Ron and Hermione know that, but just in case they -"

The protective fog in his mind shuddered. Harry's thought, too terrible to complete, faded away into indistinct horror. But he pulled himself together: this was crucial, he must be like Dumbledore, keep a cool head, make sure there were back-ups, others to carry on. Dumbledore had died knowing that three people still knew about the Horcruxes; now Neville would be able to take Harry's place. Harry must not fail this.

"Just in case they're - busy - and you get the chance -"

"Kill the snake?"

"Kill the snake." Harry repeated.

"All right, Harry. You're OK, are you?"

"I'm fine. Thanks, Neville."

But Neville seized his wrist as Harry made to move on.

"We're all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?"

"Yeah, I -"

The suffocating feeling extinguished the end of the sentence, he could not go on. Neville did not seem to find it strange. Perhaps he, too, was moving in a fog. But Neville was strong, he would recover. He patted Harry on the shoulder, released him, and walked away to look for more bodies to carry inside.

Once his back was turned, Harry swung the Cloak back over his body and moved on towards the forest.

He passed Ginny, who had somehow left the Hall and was whispering words of encouragement to a figure on the ground. She was a good girl, she'd be alright.

He passed Hagrid's hut, silent, dark and lonely in the night.

He faltered briefly, when he saw the swarm of Dementors gliding among the shallower trees of the Forest. He no longer had the strength to cast his Patronus. His hope and joy had left him. Harry wrapped his Cloak around him, as he drew his determination closer. But his thoughts of closure, of ending, sparked his mind, and even as his body rebelled and his heart thundered with life, Harry's nerveless fingers found his Snitch, and he whispered to it softly, "I am about to die."

Soft whispers surrounded him, and as Harry raised Draco's wand and murmured, " _Lumos_ ", it seemed only fitting that he was surrounded by the shades of his dead loved ones.

They murmured to him, soft words of encouragement and love, that Harry's mind – still protected by the soft fog – did not always hear, but understood anyway.

His body – the living miracle that it was – fought bravely, longing with every cell and muscle fibre in his body, to keep living, but Harry's determination was impregnable. Surely this would work. Dumbledore had spent years ensuring this outcome, there was no need to worry. There was only a one small thing.

"Does it hurt?" He could not stop the question leaking out from his traitorous mouth.

A little warmth crept back into his body at the sorrow and love he found in the face of his mother.

"Dying? Not at all," said Sirius, with a familiar smile in his eyes. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep."

Figures surrounded him, loving and kind. His father stood silent and proud. Harry stammered out an apology to Lupin. His son, his wife…

Lupin reassured him as he always had. Making the world a better place. Wasn't that what Harry was doing? Even if it was bitter, and hard?

His living friends behind him in the castle seemed less real to him now than his ghostly companions. They were an ideal, a dream for someone else.

He and his companions passed by the Dementors like shadows in the night, which he supposed they were, in the truest sense: none of them fully living now, nor yet fully dead.

The forest grew darker, and his companions lit his way with a soft silver glow that only he could see. He saw well enough to step over gnarly roots, duck hanging branches, and travelled deeper and deeper into the forest with a grace and silence that surely came only to those who planned to embrace Death.

He spied two Death Eaters, and followed them into the dark. His mother smiled at him, and his father nodded encouragement.

They had travelled on mere minutes when Harry saw light ahead, and Yaxley and Dolohov stepped out into a clearing that Harry knew had been the place where the monstrous Aragog had once lived. The remnants of his vast web were there still, but the swarm of descendants he had spawned had been driven out by the Death Eaters, to fight for their cause.

The clearing looked unworldly, a flickering firelight fell over a crowd of completely silent, watchful Death Eaters. Some of them were still masked and hooded, others showed their faces. Two giants sat on the outskirts of the group, casting massive shadows over the scene, their faces cruel, rough-hewn like rock. Harry saw Fenrir, skulking, chewing his long nails; the great, blond Rowle was dabbing at his bleeding lip. He saw Lucius Malfoy, who looked defeated and terrified, and Narcissa, whose eyes were sunken and full of apprehension. Harry wondered idly if his death would help or hurt them, too.

Every eye was fixed upon Voldemort, who stood with his head bowed, and his white hands folded over the Elder Wand in front of him. He might have been praying, or else counting silently in his mind, and Harry, standing still on the edge of the scene, thought absurdly of a child counting in a game of hide-and-seek. And why shouldn't he take note of the absurd, now, before his death? Fear was for the living.

So Harry took in the sight, and felt…nothing.

His brain was making intellectual connections from habit, nothing more. Behind Voldemort's head, swirling and coiling in deadly loops, the great snake Nagini floated in her glittering, charmed cage, like a monstrous halo.

When Dolohov and Yaxley re-joined the circle, Voldemort looked up. He spoke. Harry caught his breath. It was time.

Invisible at the corner of the scene, a sweating Harry pulled off his Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it beneath his robes, with his wand. He did not want them sullied, but did not want to be tempted to fight.

He paused, a moment longer, but there was nothing left to do and every reason to step forward: it was the easiest and hardest thing in the world to announce himself.

Chaos erupted as he stepped into the light. Cries, gasps and even laughter from the circle that stood around Voldemort. Voldemort had frozen where he stood, but his red eyes had found Harry, and he stared as Harry moved towards him, with nothing but the fire between them.

The two stood in a halo of silence.

A deep bellow: Hagrid was bound and trussed, tied to a tree, but he struggled as Harry continued to step forward. Harry met Voldemort's eyes, the circle calmed, and Voldemort raised his wand. His head was tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear -

He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.

Harry lay face down, listening to the silence, He was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.

After a time, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface. Therefore, he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.

Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion, Harry became conscious that he was naked. Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able to see. In opening them, he discovered he had eyes.

He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist he had ever experienced before. His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapour; rather the cloudy vapour had not formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there, a flat, blank something on which to be.

He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched his face. He was not wearing glasses any more.

Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small, soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed and struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.

For the first time, he wished he were clothed.

Barely had the wish formed in his head, than robes appeared a short distance away. He took them and pulled them on: they were soft, clean and warm. It was extraordinary how they had appeared, just like that, the moment he had wanted them…

He stood up, looking around. Was he in some great Room of Requirement? The longer he looked, the more there was to see. A great, domed glass room glittered high above him in sunlight. Perhaps it was a palace. All was hushed and still, except for those odd thumping and whimpering noises coming from somewhere close by in the mist.

Harry turned slowly on the spot, and his surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his eyes. A wide open space, bright and clean, a hall larger by far than the Great Hall, with that clear, domed glass ceiling. It was quite empty. He was the only person there, except for –

He recoiled. He had spotted the thing that was making the noises. It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left, unwanted, stuff out of sight, struggling for breath.

He was afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded though it was, he did not want to approach it. Nevertheless, he drew slowly nearer, ready to jump back at any moment. Soon he stood close enough to touch it, yet he could not bring himself to do it. He felt like a coward. He ought to comfort it, but it repulsed him

"You cannot help."

He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking towards him, sprightly and upright, wearing sweeping robes of midnight blue.

"Harry." He spread his arms wide, and his hands were both whole and white and undamaged. "You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk."

Stunned, Harry followed as Dumbledore strode away from where the flayed child lay whimpering, leading him to two seats that Harry had not noticed, set some distance away under that high, sparkling ceiling. Dumbledore sat down in one of them, and Harry fell into the other, staring at his old Headmaster's face. Dumbledore's long, silver hair and beard, the piercing blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, the crooked nose: everything was as he had remembered it. And yet…

"But you're dead," said Harry.

"Oh, yes," said Dumbledore matter-of-factly.

"Then...I'm dead too?"

"Ah," said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly. "That is the question, isn't it? On the whole, dear boy, I think not."

They looked at each other, the old man still beaming.

"Not?" repeated Harry.

"Not," said Dumbledore.

"But…" Harry raised his hand instinctively towards the lightning scar. It did not seem to be there. "But I should have died - I didn't defend myself! I meant to let him kill me!"

"And that," said Dumbledore, "will, I think, have made all the difference."

Happiness seemed to radiate from Dumbledore like light, like fire: Harry had never seen the man so utterly, so palpably content.

"Explain," said Harry.

"But you already know," said Dumbledore. He twiddled his thumbs together.

"I let him kill me," said Harry. "Didn't I?"

"You did," said Dumbledore, nodding. "Go on!"

"So the part of his soul that was in me…"

Dumbledore nodded still more enthusiastically, urging Harry onwards, a broad smile of encouragement on his face.

"...has it gone?"

"Oh, yes!" said Dumbledore. "Yes, he destroyed it. Your soul is whole, and completely your own, Harry."

"But then…"

Harry glanced over his shoulder, to where the small, maimed creature trembled under the chair.

"What is that, Professor?"

"Something that is beyond either of our help," said Dumbledore.

"But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse," Harry started again, "and nobody died for me this time - how can I be alive?"

"I think you know," said Dumbledore. "Think back. Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed and his cruelty."

Harry thought. He let his gaze drift over his surroundings. If it was indeed a palace in which they sat, it was an odd one, with chairs set in little rows and bits of railing here and there, and still, he and Dumbledore were the only beings there. Then the answer rose to his lips easily, without effort.

"He took my blood," said Harry.

"Precisely!" said Dumbledore. "He took your blood and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily's protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!"

Harry watched bemused as Dumbledore explained it all.

"And you knew this? You knew - all along?"

"I guessed. But my guessed have, usually, been good," said Dumbledore happily, and they sat in silence for what seemed to be a long time, while the creature behind them continued to whimper and tremble.

Their conversation began naturally, and Harry listened spellbound as Dumbledore explained the past.

Then Harry sat in thought for a long time, or perhaps seconds. It was very hard to be sure of things like time, here.

"He killed me with your wand."

"He _failed_ to kill you with my wand," Dumbledore correct Harry. "I think we can agree that you are not dead - though, of course," he added, as if fearing he had been discourteous, "I do not minimise your sufferings, which I am sure were severe."

"I feel great at the moment, though," said Harry, looking down at his clean, unblemished hands. He felt present in a way he had not felt back in the forest, when presumably he inhabited his real body, in the real world. "Where are we, exactly?"

"Well, I was going to ask you that," said Dumbledore, looking around. "Where would you say that we are?"

Until Dumbledore had asked, Harry had not known. Now, however, he found that he had an answer ready to give.

"It looks," he said slowly, "like King's Cross station. Except a lot cleaner, and empty, and we are in between trains."

"King's Cross station!" Dumbledore was chuckling immoderately. "Good gracious, really?"

"Well, where do you think we are?" asked Harry, a little defensively.

"My dear boy, I have no idea. This is, as they say, _your_ party."

Harry had no idea what this meant; Dumbledore was being infuriating. He glared at him, then remembered a much more pressing question than that of their current location.

"The Deathly Hallows," he said, and he was glad to see that the words wiped the smile from Dumbledore's face.

"Ah, yes," he said. He even looked a little worried.

"Well?"

For the first time since Harry had met Dumbledore, he looked less than an old man, much less. He looked, fleetingly, like a small boy caught in wrongdoing. Harry sat in silence as he listened first to Dumbledore's explanations, and then apologies. And while he did his best to pay due attention, he found himself turning something over in his mind.

"So you planned your death with Snape, you meant him to end up with the Elder Wand, didn't you?

"I admit that was my intention," said Dumbledore, "but it did not work as I intended, did it?"

"No," said Harry. "That bit didn't work out." Perhaps, he realised as comprehension dawned on a sacrilegious thought, Dumbledore's plan had not been… _perfect_.

The creature behind them jerked and moaned, and Harry and Dumbledore sat without talking for the longest time yet. The realisation of what would happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long minutes, like softly falling snow.

"I've got to go back, haven't I?"

"That is up to you."

"I have a choice?"

"Oh yes." Dumbledore smiled at him. "We are in King's Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to...let's say...board a train."

"And where would it take me?"

"On," said Dumbledore simply.

Silence again.

"Voldemort's got the Elder Wand."

"True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand."

"But you want me to go back?"

"I think," said Dumbledore, "that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that you have less to fear from returning here than he does."

Harry glanced again at the raw-looking thing that trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the distant chair.

Dumbledore began speaking again, but Harry stood up, and wandered slightly away, over to the edge of the nearest platform. He stood still there, and thought a bit about Hogwarts. About the defenders, like Ginny, and Neville, who had already begun putting their lives back together just by getting up and keeping on going.

He thought about Tonks and Fred and Remus, who did not have the chance. And Hedwig, poor, innocent Hedwig, whose only mistake had been to love him.

He thought about clothes.

Somehow, Harry thought, pondering the warm, dry robes that clothed him, the robes had appeared as he wished for them. They were simple, presumably, in the greater scheme of things. Familiar. Easy to wish for.

He thought about Kings Cross Station. He thought about trains.

Cocking his head, he concentrated hard and deep. Dumbledore's voice murmured kindly on behind him. Then distantly, in the manner he might expect from a place so much like the Room of Requirement, he could hear distant engine sounds approach.

Harry pondered deeply one moment longer. This place, like the Room of Requirement, somehow answered his wishes. Here he stood on one platform, and a distant train would soon arrive to take him... _onward._ And the logical progression of that thought, presumably meant…

Without giving himself time to think, he jumped down, directly onto the tracks, and scrambled across them. His heart sounding loud in his chest, Harry hoisted himself up onto the opposite platform, and shook himself down, blood roaring in his ears and pulse pounding.

His mind fixed firmly on what he wanted, Harry's hands fluttered between pockets, his heart alight with hope. Small things. Familiar things that were easy to wish for. His fingers trembled nervously until they withdrew from within his clothes a train ticket, clearly marked with his destination.

Just as they had done many times before.

He looked up to see Dumbledore had drawn himself to his feet. The old man now stood directly across from Harry, on the opposite platform. "My dear boy," he called, across the sound of the swelling train noise. "My child. _Harry_. Are you _sure_? Is this what you want?"

Harry gulped. He wasn't, precisely. But still… "I know now," he responded, "if I can go back to make a difference…" He paused. "Knowing this, if I can go back, then this is the only choice I can make."

Dumbledore was silent. The sound of the train grew closer.

Once more, Dumbledore opened his mouth. "My dear boy, you would be alone."

Harry was slightly proud of his crooked smile. It said everything that needed to be said.

"I would never…Do you realise…?" Dumbledore looked flustered, lost for words. "No one would ask you to do this."

"I'm sure, Professor."

The most complicated expression crossed Dumbledore's face. He asked once more, plaintively.

"Are you _sure_ you're sure, Harry?"

They met each other's eyes across the tracks, and neither said a word. Everything that was necessary to explain and understand was shared through their measuring gazes.

Harry opened his mouth, but Dumbledore's words once more filled the air. "We are all lucky, brave man, that we have you."

With a sudden thunder, the promised train came into sight, with a hiss of steam, breaks squealing. The billowing haze hid the Headmaster's figure from view.

Smoke and mist curled thickly around the stationary train, and Harry shook himself once more, before stepping on hurriedly. Passing quickly to the windows, he looked out at the solitary figure of his Headmaster. Dumbledore's expression was no longer incomprehensible, but regretful, and grieving, and something else besides.

Harry wondered if Dumbledore was looking at him in awe, but that was clearly a silly idea.

Dumbledore called out once more, faintly heard through the glass. "Good luck, my child."

"Tell me one last thing," Harry stood, and called out suddenly from the window. "Is this real? Or has this all been happening inside my head?"

Dumbledore beamed at him, and his figure straightened joyfully in the mist. His laughing voice carried clearly to Harry over the sounds of the engine.  
"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

And, with a hiss of steam and smoke, the white mist drifted up around the window, hiding everything from sight, and with a jolt, the carriage began to move.

Harry gazed back at the figure of the Headmaster for as long as he could see it. Then, turning slowly, sat down on the seat. The ticket held tightly on his lap, Harry fixed his destination vividly in his mind.

He closed his eyes.


	2. Back in the Cupboard

Harry woke with a start. After days of drifting blindly in darkness, he finally felt reconnected to his body. His aunt rapped on the door again.

"Alright," she snapped, "Vernon's thought seriously about this. We've decided to give you one more chance. Hurry it up."

Harry blinked his sleep-filled eyes, and forced himself up. There was a bang _._ He promptly smashed his forehead into the ceiling of a distantly familiar room. He was back in his cupboard.

"Don't make a fuss," Aunt Petunia spat out, "or we'll change our minds."

Harry crouched in his cupboard, nursing his throbbing head. Dudley had turned eleven, but Harry had ruined his birthday party and then caught the wrong train home.

Wait, that didn't sound right. He had been talking to the Professor, who had looked sad. Because everyone had been killed. And Harry was locked in the cupboard for upsetting his cousin. There might have been a snake? Opposing memories warred in his head. Harry stifled a groan. His head was pounding.

He squeezed his eyes open and peered towards the crack in the door. The light jarred, not helping at all, but if Harry wanted food he knew he had to get moving before Aunt Petunia returned. Fumbling around in the cramped room, Harry found some clothes that felt like they might fit, and clambered out of the door, stumbling towards the kitchen.

A familiar sight greeted his eyes. A cast-iron pan sat heating on the stovetop, and Harry's body naturally reached into the fridge for eggs and bacon. His head was burning with pain, and so were his eyes, but his hands managed to put the toast on, and fry up a mound of bacon, and four eggs, apparently operating on autopilot, before he cracked a shell into the frying pan. Despite his best efforts, he could not see where all the shards were.

Conflicting memories raged through his mind, and Harry finally set aside the substandard egg, before completing the Dursley's breakfast. Behind him, two heavy bodies shuffled into the room.

Harry's cousin, eleven-year-old Dudley, ignored Harry at stove, reaching crudely towards the food. He grunted a little, as he snuffled down the pile on his plate.

Uncle Vernon, on the other hand, glared closely as Harry worked wretchedly around the kitchen.

"Not looking too proud there, boy," he sniffed, watching suspiciously as Harry worked around his thumping headache. "Looks like your lesson has got though. We won't be having any strange doings or freakish behaviour around here, maybe this time that'll stick."

Harry, his memories still seething, opened and then closed his mouth.

"We do our best to see some sense knocked into that head of yours," Vernon continued. He raised his voice as his wife walked into the kitchen. "Isn't that right, Petunia dear, that a good beating will work all his troubles out? Stonewall will solve your problems, boy, don't you ever doubt it."

Harry busied himself wiping down the bench.

Petunia joined her family at the table.

The unpleasant trio busied themselves over breakfast, as Harry finished the cleaning. He cleared the table as they stood, and snuck a dry piece of bread and the ruined egg into his mouth as the family left the room. His stomach welcomed the food, even as his head complained about the crunching of the shell pieces. His headache was still not abating, and the door slamming behind Vernon as he left for work caused Harry's eyes to see white sparks.

Petunia's shrill voice from behind him surprised him.

"Hurry it up, boy, we're leaving the house as soon as you're out of the way. We're taking Dudders to London for his uniform, so you're off to Mrs Figg's."

"Um," croaked Harry. He was teetering where he stood.

"Are you sick?" shrilled his aunt, her neck elongating as her voice rose. "We won't have any of your nonsense ruining Dudder's big day. Mind yourself at Mrs Figg's, don't make a fuss, and hurry it up now." She harried him into the foyer. "Keep yourself to yourself, and don't draw attention."

The screeching woman left the room to hurry back to Dudley, and Harry could put his shoes on in peace.

His headache was horrible, but he could make a sort of rough sense out of the images in his brain. Dudley was going shopping for the day, and Harry was spending the time with Mrs Figg, who often watched him. She wasn't a witch, Harry thought, his mind still banging, but wasn't a muggle either. A friend, he settled on finally, he was pretty sure she was on his side somehow. He would have a quiet day.

He stepped out of the front door, and waited by the driveway until a ponderous Dudley was shuffled into the car by his mother. She watched with beady eyes as Harry then made his way a few doors over to Mrs Figg's house, making sure the front door was opened before she turned away and, giving Dudley an extra chocolate bar for the road, drove off down the driveway.

Mrs Figg held the door open as Harry stepped inside. She was hobbling grimly on one good leg, the other wrapped up heavily in a plaster cast. She seemed grumpier than he dimly expected, his memories still whirling, something about having tripped over Mr Tibbles in the kitchen, and he realised with dim surprise that she wasn't going to talk to him about her cats today. The familiar smell of boiled cabbage was easily ignored, and Harry easily relaxed mindlessly in front of the television.

Harry sank back in the musty couch, his closed eyes grateful for the dim light, and his memories finally overcame the pain in his mind. He was almost eleven, eagerly anticipating a letter on his birthday that would change everything, and could recall a school of magic and adventure, before being pulled into a wizarding war, and giving up his life.

Mrs Figg offered Harry the chance to eat a slice of chocolate cake, if he fetched one for her from the fridge. He stumbled up and over a number of cats, before returning with two plates of dry cake, to the couch and his memories.

The squeaks and flashes of the television set faded into the background as Harry dragged up more and more details about his future life. And death. He remembered dying. He remembered his friends dying. For him. Because of him. Which was why he had come back. To change everything.

His conversation with Dumbledore seemed further removed, somehow. Clear, distinct, but different.

It was the pain and panic now, that he best remembered. The emotions, as Hermione would have pointed out.

The swirling in his mind settled as Harry's memories grew clearer.

A surprisingly delicate snore interrupted his musings, and he glanced to one side to discover the old woman had fallen asleep in front of her television, her chin resting solidly on her chest. He didn't mind, Harry was content to ruminate over his thoughts in solitude. The hours flew past, and Harry recalled more and more of his past future. Mrs Figg remained sleeping, her cats eventually settling down in front of the telly and Harry had time to himself. The hours passed peacefully.

Lunch came and went with no movement from any of them, but finally the clock chimed 2pm, and Harry knew his family were returning home. His confusion somewhat abated, although not his headache, Harry was loath to return to the Dursley's upon the arrival of his Aunt at the door, high-strung and tense, and a grumpy Dudley, who had dropped his ice cream down his shirt in the car and wanted another.

He was relieved to slink quietly into his cupboard at the earliest opportunity, keen to think back, and remember, and plan for his second chance to save his friends. His recent memories as a ten-year-old vied for dominance in his mind with his memories as a teenager. His thoughts seemed scattered and chaotic, but also vivid, impossible to ignore. He used a precious half of a crayon to scribble madly over the far back wall of his cupboard, to plot events, their causes and effects, and drew complicated lines between related events.

A sense of purpose and excitement was rising inside him, as Harry truly began to process that he might be able to change his future.

Later that night, Harry grew tenser and tenser. It had taken him a full three hours in the back of his cupboard before the awful thought occurred to him that maybe it was all just a dream, to take him away from the Dursley's, and have friends, and family, and purpose. The stuffy air in the cupboard kept him from sleep, and each spider scuttle, and lump under his mattress caused Harry to toss and turn.

He emerged from his cupboard the next morning to the sour smell of expiring clothes, to find Dudley's cast-offs drowning in a sink of grey. His horror went unnoticed: Petunia merely sniffed at his comments, and the family twisted their faces as they once more ate a delicious breakfast from Harry, spoiled only by the scent of the clothes in the sink.

A rattle came from the front door.

Harry stiffened.

"Get the post, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the post, Harry."

Harry took two eager steps towards the door, before he paused to check if this was some cruel trick by his uncle. Vernon had returned to behind his newspaper, and the family ate their food exactly as if they had forgotten Harry existed.

Not a joke then, but still possibly a dream.

Harry went to get the post. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Vernon's sister, a brown envelope, and one dearly beloved, rich cream, familiar parchment envelope with brilliant emerald-green ink, addressed to:

 _Mr H. Potter_

 _The Cupboard under the Stairs_

 _4 Privet Drive_

 _Little Whinging_

 _Surrey_

Harry picked it up with trembling hands, and turned it over. The green ink was the same. The Hogwarts seal looked right. The envelope was familiar in weight. He listened carefully to the munching sounds of the Dursley's breakfasting, and then quickly stuffed the envelope into his trouser waistband, and patted his shirt down on top of it. He returned to the kitchen.

Harry was so keen to return to his cupboard to open his envelope that he accidentally broke a plate. His heart leaped – anticipating his punishment eagerly, for once – but Petunia made him finish the dishes and kitchen wipe-down, before locking him up and ironically gifting him his freedom.

Finally, as the family moved well into their day, Harry settled into the darkest corner of his small room and levered up the flap of the envelope.

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)_

 _Dear Mr Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

Harry's hands shook slightly in excitement. The parchment felt rough and heavy to his hands, the faint scent of sulphur and ink reached his nose.

With a jolt, Harry realised that his hands had crumpled the letter in excitement, and he immediately set about smoothing it out and pouring over it in detail.

He had been right, it wasn't a dream. He had come back, to the beginning, to do everything over and do it right.

A small fire burned in his chest at the thought of making things right for Hedwig.

He spent the day wildly scribbling further details onto the wall at the back of his cupboard, and returning repeatedly in haste to his letter, physical proof that he had not gone crazy. His life really was about to change for the better.

For the rest of the week, Harry floated through his chores with equanimity. The Dursley's were served quality breakfasts, from a spotless kitchen. The garden was impeccable. Harry roamed about outside in a daze, or snuggled in his cupboard with such peace and enlightenment that Vernon started muttering about his health.

"'S'not right, it's not. Such a dangerous child suddenly becoming so tame. He's got something planned, mark my words. Sleep light, Petunia pet, and lock him up well at night. We don't want him murdering us all in beds just as we're about sort him out once and for all."

Petunia sniffed, pulled her dressing gown tight, and watched Harry like a hawk.

Even Dudley tore his eyes of the television once, to watch as Harry glided blissfully through the lounge. Petunia was so disturbed that she let Harry drink orange juice the next morning with his breakfast.

Harry was so buoyed by his letter, that their suspicious and impatience simply bounced off him.

His birthday drew near.

Harry work bright and early on the morning of his birthday. He had been dreaming happily of his reunion with Hagrid, his first birthday cake and his wonderful visit to Diagon Alley.

Petunia hurried him into the kitchen to cook breakfast as usual, while he waited for the knock on the door. Dudley spilled his orange juice all over Vernon's newspaper. Harry waited. Vernon left for work in a foul mood, and Petunia hurried after Dudley, eventually promising him a trip to the movie theatre and lunch with his friends in an effort to cheer him up. Harry waited.

He snapped out of his sunny daze as he arrived once more at Mrs Figg's front door just after ten. Hagrid wasn't coming. Something had gone wrong.

It took only a moment for Harry to realise that he had ruined everything, changed everything, by opening his Hogwarts letter himself, rather than letting his uncle and cousin ruin the moment.

Of all the foolish…a hideous thought: Snape might be right about him, after all. How could he possibly be so blind?

He briefly wondered exactly what could have made the change in the timeline, but there was too much he did not know. Why _exactly_ had Hagrid not arrived? His best bet was to assume that there was some kind of receipting system when the Hogwarts letters reached their targets, and thus Dumbledore must have assumed everything was okay, that Petunia would remember the way to Diagon Alley. It seemed a very optimistic thought on Dumbledore's behalf.

But now his timeline was ruined, and the dazzling Hogwarts dream would never happen.

Or would it?

Harry's mind flipped a switch. No longer an eleven-year-old boy hiding a wonderful secret from his cruel abusers. No longer a warrior on a holiday from war. His seventeen years of experience: the conqueror of culture shock and bullies, master of magic, and the wizard feared by Voldemort himself, emerged from the fuzzy haze in which he had been living.

Nothing had been ruined. He could still fix this problem.

He turned on the doorstep to Mrs Figg.

"Mrs Figg," he began, a curiously mature look springing to his young face. "My cousin had an accident over breakfast, and my aunt has forgotten I need to enrol in my new school by today. Could I borrow enough money to take a taxi to Charing Cross? Please? I promise I'll pay you back."

Mrs Figg glanced sharply at Harry for an instant, before rearranging her features into a concerned gaze.

"Charing Cross, you say? That's a long way for a child such as yourself to travel alone. Perhaps I had better - "

Harry cut her off. "Oh please, Mrs Figg, everything is all organised. I have people to meet there and everything, only Aunt Petunia must have just forgotten with all the fuss of this morning." He wondered if he were laying it on a bit thick. "You could see me into the taxi if you want, and they'll meet me at the other end, but I'm short on time, and I'd hate to be rude to such important people."

Mrs Figg was flustered. Harry's big eyes gazed out at her from the small, lean face.

"I'm sure someone will see me home, but I really can't be late, so please...the taxi?"

She muttered something under her breath, that sounded suspiciously like 'spoiled dumb whale' _,_ before she stumped inside and spoke gruffly into her phone.

Harry then watched as she rattled around in a number of drawers, finally retrieving a handful of bank notes from inside her fridge.

"Here boy, this should cover your taxi costs. Mind your manners in front of the professors, now. A good impression is the keystone to success."

She reached over roughly, and patted futilely at his hair. "Mind how you speak. Don't s'pose you can do anything about those looks of yours, but do your best. Hurry now, and don't make them wait."

She ushered Harry out into the street just as the taxi pulled up, and stuck her head into the vehicle.

"Look after the lad, he's got a good head on his shoulders, but he's running late for an important meeting." She glared at Harry, who was standing back to let her poke her head in the car. "What are you waiting for? Jump in, and mind your manners." Her eyes were bright with hidden excitement, and Harry was surprised by her rough kindness, "You'll be alright. Off you go."

Of course, she did have some idea what he was supposedly getting himself into.

Harry manoeuvred himself around her, sliding into the taxi, gave his destination to the driver, and sat back in his seat to watch the drive flash by.

Before he knew it, the car was pulling up near the Charing Cross Road intersection Harry recognised. He stuffed a handful of notes towards the driver as they slowed down for the heavy traffic.

"This will do, thanks awfully for the lift. Will this much money cover the trip?"

The driver, a grumpy, silent type, counted the bills at a glance and grunted. Perhaps he might have said more, but Harry cut him off.

"So that's a yes. Thank goodness for your help, you've really saved me. Seriously, you're great." And he promptly hopped out of the car.

He dashed through the traffic quickly, but alertly, and made his way safely to the pavement. Harry took a moment to roll up his sleeves, and pat down his hair, before merging into the flow of foot traffic. He swept along with the busy crowd, eyes keen and searching, until…

He jerked to a stop and dashed into an old pharmacy that had caught his eye.

It took him two minutes to find what he had been searching for, and he used his last five pound note to buy a brand new men's handkerchief from the pharmacy in question. There was not a lot to choose from, so he picked a brown checkered one, and clutched it tightly in his hand as he merged back out into the busy street.

He was swept along in the rush, craning his neck to catch sight of the different shops he passed. Hagrid wasn't with him this time, so he had to fight the crowd on his own. Finally, he darted out of the crush to stand on the doorstep of a familiar building, the Leaky Cauldron. He was hidden from the muggles by the charms laid on the shop. They walked passed him without seeing. He shook out the handkerchief.

Truly, at this point of time Harry felt extremely nervous. Would he be recognised? Would he be mobbed? The whole experience would go very differently without Hagrid to protect him. Yet his plan was…well, his plan was probably functional. He really wished he had a better one.

He felt utterly ridiculous as he folded the handkerchief diagonally, and tied it over his forehead like a bandana. Pocket handkerchiefs were not meant to be worn this way. It was a little small, even on him, and he felt with resignation the little triangular tuft that poked up at the back of his head. But if his scar and famous Potter hair were hidden, he thought he stood a good chance at going unrecognised. At least it wasn't as silly as wearing a woman's nightdress like that wizard at the Quidditch Cup that one time.

After a moment, Harry also took of his glasses. They did seem part and parcel of the 'Boy Who Lived' image, and who knew who might be there to recognize him on the other side? His sight would be a bit fuzzy, but if he could make it to the back courtyard without attracting attention, he could put them back on.

Harry stepped into the building.

The dimly lit interior was as dark and shabby as he remembered it. A crowd of old women were drinking sherry in a corner. The buzz of conversation faltered as the door swung shut behind him, but picked up again as Harry made his way silently into the room.

He hoped devoutly that he would manage to exit the building without drawing attention to himself. Perhaps without Hagrid's...presence...it would work.

He straightened his back as he walked up to the barman.

"I'm after the courtyard sir, to meet a friend. Do I just walk on through?"

The curious gaze of the brown, wizened barman and his companion peered closely at him, but Harry resisted the urge to pat the handkerchief down. He held his head high.

"In a bit of a rush sorry, so if you don't mind…?"

Harry thought it was a quizzical look that crossed the barman's indistinct face, but then then man gestured with a glass and somewhat dirty rag towards back door.

"Many thanks," Harry nodded shortly, and strode out into the courtyard. As soon as he was out of sight, he patted down his bandana, popped on his glasses, and shook his body loosely. He felt a small rush of adrenaline flush into his system.

"I'm fine, two obstacles down...I can do this."

He stopped short as he reached the brick wall he remembered so well, firmly repressing a jolt of panic as he registered his lack of wand. He gingerly poked a likely brick thrice with his finger, and waited for one tense moment. A roar of raucous laughter from the pub made him jump, but the wall did not change.

Harry frowned.

He counted the bricks slowly, his finger returning to hover above the brick in question, and thought about it, with intent. If he could invent a train in his mind that could return him to eleven, a simple brick stood no chance. His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips as he once more prodded the brick with force.

His Gringotts account would be first, and then he was going to make sure he would never be without his wand and money again.

With a slow grind and a reluctant shudder, the wall finally fell away, and Harry Potter entered the famed Diagon Alley for the first time, all over again.

Squaring his shoulders and twitching his ill-fitting clothes straight, Harry strode through the arch way and set his course for one of the oldest wizarding buildings on the street: the bank.

The street was crowded and busy, with bustling parents and children wandering from shop to shop. Harry hoped to stay unnoticed as he did his shopping.

As he walked, he kept a close eye out for people he knew.

Harry thought he saw a couple of quidditch players from Hufflepuff, with what must be their families, but saw none of his friends.

Hedwig and his wand was only a few moments away. But first…

Moving quickly, he passed down the street, before climbing the steps and walking straight into Gringotts. The goblin by the door just had time to bob its head, and Harry was inside.

The inside was white marble, and brighter than Harry remembered, and beautiful. Perhaps that was just the bad memories of his bank break-in colouring his recall.

All along the hall, goblins were showing people in and out of the doors that lined the large room.

Harry made his way towards to counter, and joined the queue.

"Excuse me," he said to a goblin, when he finally made his way to the front of the line, "I'm here to access the account of Harry Potter?" He dropped his voice at the end of his sentence. "I'm Harry?"

"You have your key?" the goblin enquired indifferently.

"Um," Harry paused while the adrenaline coursed through his system. Another mistake! He told himself repressively that panic was unnecessary. This set-back was nothing to him. "No. It seems someone forgot to give it to me. I'm prepared to take the test – "

The goblin cut him off, "Counter over in the corner. If you've come without your guardian, ask for Stonkuk, and mind the extra charge. Next."

Harry waited for a moment, but he had clearly been dismissed. He sighed, and wandered over to the far corner, where he joined another queue. It was far shorter than the other lines winding through the bank, but moved slower.

Finally, he once again made his way to the front of the line.

"Sorry for the trouble," he began, "I've been told to ask for Stonkuk, and I'm –" he lowered his voice, "I'm Harry Potter."

"Very good. Please wait."

The goblin hopped down off his counter seat, and trotted over to a nearby door. He rapped against the stone, and entered.

Shortly thereafter, the goblin returned.

"Stonkuk will see you now, Mr. Potter. Straight through this door here, and take a seat."

The goblin waved Harry towards the open door, and bowed a little as he walked through the door.

Harry entered the next room, his eyes flickering quickly around the space.

The room he was entering was small and cozy in comparison to the hall outside. The ceiling was low, and a large desk took up most of the space. The walls were bare marble, excepting a rich, lush tapestry that hung on the wall opposite the desk. Harry could not identify the scene at a glance: hundreds of bodies – goblins, he thought – raced madly across the landscape in brown and gold and silver threads. They gleamed gently in the steady light from the wall sconces that illuminated the room. To his right, facing the tapestry, sat a huge mahogany desk covered in piles of parchment, and quills, and strange devices. Harry thought for a moment of the strange instruments in Dumbledore's office. The desk was dominated by a large, elaborate set of golden scales, with strange antennae arrayed around it. It overwhelmed the goblin behind, despite the fact that the aging creature appeared, at second glance, to be very well dressed.

The creature was dressed neatly in a pinstriped three-piece suit, a time piece clearly tucked into his breast pocket, from which a watch chain dangled. A few wisps of hair were combed neatly over his otherwise bald head. Glasses hung on a chain around his neck, and a number of rings sat adorning the creature's long, nimble fingers.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Harry met his gaze, and realized with a start that the goblin was perched precariously on top of a stool piled with cushions.

The goblin gazed straight back at Harry, apparently unimpressed by his powers of observation. Or, judging by the creature's scowl, lack thereof.

Harry sat down.

Stonkuk fixed him sternly with a glance. Harry wondered what he saw: a strange child, badly dressed, too slender for good health, with pale skin. Harry rather wondered if his celebrated green eyes might be glowing with feverish brightness. He was nervous, tense, on edge. Something caught the old goblin's eye, and he leaned closer. Harry wondered for a moment if his life story could be read through his eyes. But after a moment, the goblin returned to himself, and a mask of bland professionalism returned to his face.

"Name?"

"Harry Potter, sir."

"Vault number?"

"687, sir."

"Reason for loss of access?"

Harry paused. "Er...it's only that no one has given me my key, sir. After my parent's death, I was raised by muggle relatives and never received anything from their –"

The goblin cut him off with a stiff small jerk of one hand, reciting dryly a clearly familiar phrase. "All registered victims of Death Eater activity are to visit Gringotts at the earliest opportunity to have their assets unfrozen. Assets are frozen to protect against security breaches until registered victims can assert their identity."

Harry blinked. He'd never heard of those rules before. Hagrid or Professor Dumbledore or someone must have done all of this for him, last time. "Then I'm here for that, sir. I assert my identity as the last remaining Potter and thus owner of the vault, and…" he paused, searching for a phrase, "that I am of sound mind and body."

The goblin fussed a moment with the chain around his neck, finally locating the spectacles. Stonkuk promptly put them on, and peered at Harry from over his lenses.

Harry thought some more. "...And not under duress or magical coercion of any kind."

The goblin grunted. "Yes. Harry Potter, I've heard of you." He fussed around with his papers, apparently marking something down with an elegant quill. "Wand, please?"

Harry twitched. "I don't have one, sir. Uh...I can't buy anything until I have access to the money in my vault."

The goblin was clearly not impressed, making another, longer note on a separate piece of parchment for some time, before he pushed the notes into a drawer somewhere under the desk, and out of Harry's sight. He sighed, rearranged his other papers, and finally leaned forward to push the golden scales into the middle of the desk.

"Place your wand arm above the closest pan, and remain still."

Harry silently did as he was told. Although he touched nothing, the scales tilted slowly towards him. The fine antennae waved madly for a few minutes, while the goblin eyed them carefully.

Harry's arm began to ache, but he waited while the goblin gave a little grunt, and began marking a new piece of parchment. As the silence grew, Harry noticed that the goblin must have been older than he thought: the rasping of his breath seemed to indicate advanced age. He was peering closely at the writing too, despite the light. The room was not dark, or harshly lit, despite the room size, and it occurred to Harry that the room was very well ventilated for something made from rock. Was there magic for that? He had never wondered before.

The quill tip scratched rapidly across the parchment, pausing only as the goblin continued to eye the still quivering antennae.

Harry's thin, young arm started to shake.

The goblin finally finished his writing with another grunt, and then whipped the parchment off the desktop and into another drawer out of Harry's sight. It slid shut with a quiet rasp.

"Very good, Mr Potter. Everything is in order. Please register your wand at your earliest convenience." He leaned sideways, reaching down into a drawer somewhere near to the ground, and heaved.

Harry twitched, was the goblin falling off his cushions? But no, Stonkuk returned upright, and precisely placed a shiny key on the desktop. Perhaps his sudden scowl had nothing to do with the indignity he had just put himself through, but Harry wondered. Stonkuk's glasses hung precariously tilted on the very end of this long nose. Some of the comb-over now waved gently in the still air.

Harry quickly averted his gaze.

"Here is your vault key. To activate, hold it in your hand and push your magic into it. Go on then," Stonkuk snapped, as Harry stared.

Harry picked up his new vault key, and willed his magic to travel into the metal. It glowed white hot for a brief second, before returning to its normal golden hue. The goblin grunted. Harry thought it was pleased.

"Very good, the desk outside will provide access to your money. You have a limit of one-hundred galleons for one week while your account details are processed; you have been charged one galleon and four sickles for the activation fee. Good day."

Harry met the goblin's eyes for a brief moment, but realised that he had been dismissed and slid off his chair fast enough to avoid another grunt.

He felt Stonkuk's gaze follow him as he walked out, and spared a wretched thought for his state of dress. The fabled Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, dressed like a pauper. And no wand or guardian. It was going to be a challenge to stay unnoticed.

But at least he had a plan.

After rejoining the queue at the back, and waiting – again – Harry once more spoke to the goblin behind the counter, and was quickly shown to his vault. The cart ride down into the earth was as bone-rattling and chilly as he remembered, although he was expecting the dragon fire this time. Reaching their goal, the cart screeched to a stop and his goblin companion clambered out efficiently. Harry scrambled to follow. The unfamiliar goblin reached out a hand impatiently, and Harry stared at it for a long moment. When the goblin turned to scowl at him impatiently, Harry's mind cleared. With strange reluctance, he released his new key into the goblin's hand, and stepped back to watch as the creature unlocked the vault door. Dark, thick green smoke came billowing out and as it cleared, Harry filled his eyes once more with the wealth in his vault.

This was his path to success.

He had a thought. "How much gold do I have in here, do you know?" he enquired politely of the goblin. How had Harry not thought to ask before?

It shot him what Harry could only describe as a look of disgust.

"No." Oh. The goblin continued. "Wizards do not trust goblins to touch their wealth, just to protect it." Oh, again.

"So how can I find out what I own?"

If possible, the creature's opinion of him dropped lower. "Counting charms."

Well, that would make sense. If only he had a wand. And wasn't a minor. Perhaps…

"Does Gringotts provide such a service for underage wizards like me?"

A feral grin creased the face of the goblin before him, and Harry was abruptly reminded that he was unarmed, and all alone in Goblin territory deep underground.

"For a percentage."

A percentage. Harry glanced briefly around at the mounds of gold, piles of silver and bronze. A flat fee he had expected, but no matter how much he might never miss the money, this was clearly a system to take advantage of orphans and children. He loathed it on principle.

"Maybe another time."

The goblin grunted again, in disappointment or respect Harry couldn't quite tell. He bent over and picked up and handful of galleons before discovering his next problem. Hagrid wasn't next to him, providing a bag. And Dudley's old pockets were not in the best of shape.

"Does Gringotts happen to provide money bags for clients?"

The grim goblin smiled that savage smile again, and Harry felt the need to alter his question. Clearly, the available options would rip him off, but it might be worth it.

"What benefits do Gringotts money bags provide for their customers?"

"They hold your coins." The goblin, possibly realising that Harry wasn't the stupid eleven-year-old he looked, retreated into sullen unhelpfulness.

"No feather-light charms? Extension spells? Security enhancements? Counting enchantments?"

"Do I look like a wand-waver to you?"

Well, that was blunt. Harry turned the gold in his hand over thoughtfully. Seven Galleons would buy him a wand. A cheap pouch, a few sickles; but a secure one would likely cost him a bit more. Hedwig, fifteen galleons minimum, plus extras. And that was just the essentials. He carefully placed fifteen galleons in each of his two trouser pockets, then bounced up and down gently. He jingled, noticeably. Three coins spilled from his left pocket and rolled onto the floor. The goblin smirked.

Harry replaced them, then thrust his hands into his pockets, and gripped the coins tightly in each fist. He bounced and up again.

This time he did not jingle, nor did any coins pop out. However, Harry felt completely ridiculous with two noticeably bulges protruding from each thigh, and removing his hands from the pockets to open doors and so on was going to be a problem. He wasn't sure how the seams would hold either.

He retrieved the bulk of the coins, and then tried five galleons per pocket. They were far less obvious, and fit much more easily in his fists. This was going to be a hassle, but what part Harry's life was ever easy? He may as well begin as he meant to continue.

With a gaze that dared the goblin to judge him – which it did, but at least was silent about it – Harry turned and left the vault. Ten galleons was enough to buy decent money bag, and perhaps a mokeskin pouch for security, and then he would have to return.

After all, the whole point of going back to eleven-years-old was to give himself more time.

Harry avoided drawing attention to himself, but managed to arrive at Stowe and Packers Magical Bags in good time. A quick trip inside, a few rapid-fire questions with the owner, and he walked out the proud owner of a high-quality coin pouch, containing light-weight, expanding and counting enchantments. Three enchantments were apparently the limit for such a small piece of leather, so he also bought himself the mokeskin pouch with a moment of thanks for Hagrid's off-hand advice – "Hide anythin' in there an' no one but the owner can get it out" – and hung it around his neck, then popped the other pouch inside.

It was a twenty-minute wait in the queue back in bank, another trip down into his vault – a different goblin, though no more helpful – and then _another_ queue to change some gold into muggle money, but finally Harry was blinking in the light, ready for the next stage of his plan.


	3. An Old Friend

Harry was excited. He had money, he was unsupervised, and it was finally time to put his plan into action. Or at least, finally his chance to begin making amends with regards to one of his greatest regrets.

 _Eeylops Owl Emporium – Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown and Snowy_ was as dark and rustling as he remembered. Harry passed the bespeckled shop manager at the door, and strode deeper into the shop with a light heart; he sped through the aisles looking for a large, female Snowy Owl with deep amber eyes. He was not quite sure where he was looking, Hagrid had come without him last time, but now the anticipation was half the fun. He reached the back of the shop, paused, and backtracked.

This time he inspected each cage, and peered into the dark corners of the shop, checking out cages on the floor, and walked slowly, but he had travelled the whole shop three times before the shop manager approached.

"You'll be looking for an owl for school then," the man suggested, looking somewhat dubiously at Harry's oversized muggle clothing and flapping handkerchief. "May I recommend the Eagle Owl on my left? Very fast, they are, and will give you a bonus for your potions if you're lucky. All the kids want these."

Harry quickly dismissed the man's suggestion. "I was looking for a Snowy Owl, female, very beautiful and calm." He glanced around, "I was sure you had one."

"Oh, her," the man nodded. "We did, very popular she was. We sold her not an hour ago." Harry's heart dropped. "One very happy wee miss got that one. We have a male over here?"

"What?"

Harry went cold. A chilly tingle travelled all the way down to the base of his spine.

"Sold? But she was mine – I mean, she was perfect." His tongue tripped over itself in his haste. "Are you sure? She was about this big, and had beautiful amber eyes, and a low call, and her wingspan was about so wide…" His hands were dancing around in the air, illustrating her size. The man who, frankly, didn't seem too focussed on Harry, nodded absently.

"Boy, you do know your stuff. That was her exactly. Sold her myself." His gaze slowly drifted away from the busy street outside and came to focus on Harry. Harry's panic registered dimly. "Now here, it's clear you have a good eye, can I interest you in this young Eagle Owl, just in today…"

His voice faded into the background as Harry's brain whirred and clunked at great speeds. It had been his chance to do everything over again! To make friends with Hedwig, and to protect her and keep her safe! He had everything planned out; he was going to buy her favourite treats extra often, and talk to her during the holidays, and he would know precisely how to protect her from the Killing Curse so she would not die again. How could she be _gone_?

A leaden feeling settled into his gut.

His thoughts continued at a racing pace. His great anticipation, his chance to do something right the second time over was lost. And now his future could not be the same.

There was a thought there, that Harry's mind was working towards.

He had not realised… _of course_ Hedwig stood out in the shop, and _of course_ other people would want her too. It seemed that despite his previous experience, there was no guarantee that he would get the same chances again.

If only he not arrived so late. If only he had not been stuck at the bank.

If only he had let Uncle Vernon steal his letter all over again!

She was irreplaceable. And he had lost her. Harry's brain stuttered at the thought.

The thought that had been hovering just out of his grasp popped into clarity in his mind. With a sudden gasp and rather rude word, Harry turned on the spot and dashed out of the store. The droning shop manager, having carefully recited the attractions of his birds all this time, stuttered to a halt in confusion as Harry left him in the dust.

Harry pounded down Diagon Alley, leaving no room in his thoughts for staying low-key, and dashed headlong towards _Ollivanders_. He had changed the timeline, which was why he had missed Hedwig. He was heartbroken, and sad. He would have to face that later. But, _what happened if his wand was sold too?_ Without his wand, Harry had no confidence to fight against Voldemort!

Again, he had been so caught up in his nostalgia for the past that the obvious had slipped by him. He was at war. No one else knew that yet, true, but Harry determined never to lose focus again in his journey to defeat his prophesized enemy.

The door to Ollivanders slammed shut behind him, throwing up a light cloud of dust in the shop. The back of his neck prickled as the sound of the doorbell died away. The bustle and movement of the busy street had no place in this shop, and the air settled heavy and still around him.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice, and Harry only refrained from jumping because his heart still thumped loudly in his ears.

The old wandmaker stepped towards Harry from the shadows of the shop, and peered closely at his face in the light.

"You have your mother's eyes, if I'm not mistaken," the wandmaker continued. "Harry Potter, or I miss my guess. Ten and a quarter inches, willow. Good for charms."

Harry consciously slowed his speech from the headlong rush he wanted. "Yes sir, and James Potter's was transfiguration. I'm here for my wand, please."

Ollivander's huge eyes drew closer in silence. Harry thought once more that the man was creepy. Plus, he had no sense of personal space.

"Indeed," said Ollivander, sounding fainter and paler. "Eleven inches of the finest mahogany, although I was not aware that you knew."

Harry bit his tongue.

After a pause, the pale little man snapped his attention back to the moment, and allowed himself to be directed to his measuring tape and his wands.

Despite his impatience, Harry kept his mouth shut rather than ask to try any holly and phoenix feather wands that Ollivander may have in storage. He had to let the timeline play out as it should, or he might ruin things again. He waved wand after wand, but gave nothing but his frustration away.

Finally, Ollivander paused, and eyeballed Harry once more. "Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find your perfect match… I wonder, now – yes, perhaps, why not – unusual combination. Here, try this holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry felt a hot tingle in his fingers, and the heat rushed up his arm in a burning wave as the wand spat red and gold sparks from its tip. A faint scorched scent hung in the air, and Harry wondered briefly if he had accidentally burned up some of the dust in the powerful exuberance he had felt as he reunited with his partner.

Ollivander raised his eyebrows at the light show, and pursed his lips. He put Harry's wand back into the box, and wrapped it in brown paper, muttering to himself.

Harry let him mumble away without interrupting. He did not need to be told that Voldemort had the brother wand. He was just relieved he had not ruined everything.

He dug through his money pouch for seven galleons, and gamely stuffed his neatly packaged wand into the mokeskin that hung around his neck.

He had wasted over an hour of daylight already, and estimated he had maybe two more hours of freedom before Aunt Petunia would expect to see him at Mrs Figg's.

He would have to move faster.

But just before he left the shop, Harry made a gamble.

"So, this wand comes with the Ministry Trace already on it, then?" he asked.

Ollivander scowled. "Nonsense. My wands are sold as pure and unadulterated as wands should be. You have a month, young man," he sniffed, "before your beauty is corralled and collared on the Hogwarts Express." For an instant, his voice had lost the distant tone, and sounded like an exasperated craftsman frustrated by the ignorance of savages. "To Hogwarts, of course, where you will first learn to wield its power. And not before." He fixed his wide eyes sternly on Harry's small form. "Bear it wisely." Ollivander's voice faded away again into silence, and Harry gulped.

He had clearly been told to learn to use his wand at the school. But, he had gambled on Ollivander's nature, and won. And now he knew his magic was Traceless for the month of August. He had four weeks of freedom.

Harry's mad rush to Ollivander's had taken him off the carefully planned schedule he had come up with in the taxi. His mistake with Hedwig meant that one more purchase must be made before he returned to his plans.

Stopping briefly by the Owl Post Office to send off his time-sensitive note to Professor McGonagall accepting his place at the school, Harry then strode back down the Alley, popping into a number of diverse shops, in search of a specific something.

Feet sore, and slightly grumpy, he finally returned to Wiseacre's, a wizarding equipment shop, having had no luck. Here the range of magical curios was vast and diverse. This was his last hope. He approached the counter.

"Excuse me. Is it possible to order a Pensieve, if I pay the deposit now, and in full upon collection?"

It was a purchase that Harry had initially decided to postpone, but the disastrous mistakes that he had already made in his second chance at this timeline had impressed upon him its necessity. Harry would have to review his memories for details before he had to face them again. The cost, and the potential rewards, were both huge.

It was an unusual request, and Harry watched as the baffled owner did a double take at his appearance. He was short, of course. And the ill-fitting clothes, muggle style, and the dratted handkerchief, probably lent his figure an air of the ridiculous. But Harry drew himself up upon such inspection, and gathered his dignity. Despite the inspection he was faced with, he channelled his experience teaching the DA, and cloaked himself in confidence.

With the briefest of thoughts, Harry remembered the dangers he had faced during his teenage years. He had years of facing wearying threats and danger, had overcome monsters of myth and legend. He had paid for the safety of his friends with his life. The judgement of a shopkeeper should be nothing to him.

It took only an instant for the shop owner to entirely reassess Harry's character. His eyes brightened.

"Well, sir," he began, with a hunch of his shoulders. "That's certainly an unusual request. You've seen one, have you? Thought it was convenient?"

"Well, yes," Harry responded. Obviously.

"Fine craftmanship," the man continued. "Beautiful work. Exquisite. I saw one once, you know. But they are unfortunately not sold premade. There's just not enough call for 'em."

Harry cocked his head. "Yeah, I thought so." Dumbledore certainly owned the only copy he had ever heard of. "But I thought I could order one?"

"Ahhh," said the man. "I see what you're doing. Smart thought."

Harry grew more perplexed. Was a simple yes or no too much to ask for?

"We at Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment exist to satisfy your every equipmental need. Telescopes, scales, orreries – "

"What?"  
"Orreries. Clockwork solar systems? I have a small-scale model over 'ere, perfect as a supplementary tool for astronomy and divination. It even includes the moons of Saturn! The secrets of the heaven's will be opened to you! Perhaps you collect your own potion supplies? This orrery will allow you to judge the perfect time for harvest!"

"But the Pensieve?" Harry interrupted.

"It comes with a complementary copper sickle for efficient gathering?"

Harry waited.

"Er…" the man hummed. "No."

Harry sighed. "So you can't order one for me?"

"Well," the shopkeep rubbed the back of his neck. "I've never done it before. Not much call for them, you see. Very rare, they are." He swallowed at Harry's expression. "I don't suppose…well, there might be…A potion for the mind won't meet your needs?" He asked hopefully. "We sell long-term phials…"

"No," said Harry shortly, although the idea had potential...

"It might be possible," the man finally admitted. "I do have a contact…it wouldn't hurt to ask, I suppose…" He trailed off.

"Yes?" Harry asked with a weary voice. He had honestly not expected his request to be too difficult. But then, he admitted with wry honesty, if such a convenient tool were easy to get hold of, then everyone would have one.

"They're French, you know." The man finally confessed.

"Yes?"

"In France. Across the channel. Beautiful workmanship, international reputation. But still, nothing like good, solid British reliability. I don't suppose…"

"Could you find out for me?" Harry asked with exquisite politeness.

"Well, it's not our usual service – " the man began, but changed his sentence when he looked at Harry's face, " – but I can certainly enquire on your behalf."

Harry nodded firmly, and drew out his money pouch immediately. "Then I shall give you a deposit to confirm my interest."

He piled up fifty galleons on the man's counter, in stacks of ten. Every time he added another column to the stack the man's eyebrows rose. Harry had no idea how much Pensieves cost, but if none of his enquiries had revealed any available in England at all, the price must be beyond steep.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir," the shopkeeper ventured, as Harry straightened up the last stack of coins. "What are you wearing?"

Harry's hand drifted up and patted his handkerchief with no conscious input from him. "Oh, I came in the muggle entrance," he responded self-consciously.

"Ah," the man nodded sagely. "Is that what they're wearing these days?"

"To the best of my knowledge," Harry said with a straight face. "I seemed to fit in just fine. I will stop by in a few days," he blithely continued, "to confirm the details. I expect you will have my options organised for me then. Good day to you, sir."

He nodded sharply, and left the store behind him.

That feeling in his stomach didn't improve. He wanted to go home. Wherever home was, these days.

Harry felt rather wrung out and exhausted. His grand re-entrance into the wizarding world had not gone as he had hoped. Failed to meet Hagrid, laughed at by a goblin, lost Hedwig, potential Pensieve purchase possible, but neither guaranteed or immediate…what else could possibly go wrong? It barely cheered him up when Harry realised that he had managed to miss Malfoy at Madam Malkin's. He could take that as a triumph, he supposed. He could do with a break at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, but he didn't even have the time for that.

His next plan had been to buy a trunk, and then fill it with books for self-study, but now that he had used up so much of his week's allocation of coinage, he was certain he could not afford the specialty trunk that would be required to safely store his Pensieve.

For the Pensieve, Harry came to realise with resignation, was going to be the key to success. He was small, he was weak, he was friendless. The one single benefit he had right now that the information locked up inside his head.

Knowledge of skills, knowledge of events, memories of people.

Which brought Harry to his next realization, not that Harry ever wanted to have to deal with this, let alone today: he had to worry about Legilimency. From Snape. And Dumbledore. And Quirrell. And Voldemort. Well, wasn't that a happy thought?

He wasn't quite sure who was most intimidating.

It was with grim determination and resigned footsteps that eventually took Harry to _Flourish and Blotts_ , where he planned to invest the rest of his available time.

And that too was an exercise in frustration. A standard priced textbook could cost up to ten galleons, or thereabouts. Taking into account all that he had already spent, plus the gold that Harry had transferred into muggle money, he could afford perhaps two books to last him a week.

He could not help but grumble, when he went to the bank with Hagrid, there had been no hundred galleon limit.

He brushed off the harried sales assistant and browsed morosely through the school book section, his eyes lingering on the Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks.

The thought occurred to him that he should read ahead to discover what textbooks the competition Defence teachers required of their students, so he could use them as a reference.

Although Quirrell had been a useless lecturer, his textbooks had been solid.

His eyes flicked over the shelf in question.

Quentin Trimble was probably an author to watch out for. Arsenius Jigger was possibly another. But there was no urgency for that, he could come back to Defence.

Potions were another possibility: _The Delights and Dangers of Potions and Poisons_ looked promising. A Wit-Sharpening Potion, or a Memory Potion, could speed things up. Browsing the book, Harry's eyes fell upon Baruffio's Brain Elixir, which looked a likely candidate too, until he read that it only worked when freshly made, and only the very best potion masters could do even that reliably. Harry bet Snape could make it, but there was no way he could ask about that.

Was there no such thing as a Clarity Concoction, or Unction of Understanding?

Dosing himself with potions seemed like a decision to make without rush, and anyway, first he would need to make it or buy a potion premade as well.

Perhaps he should come back for _Preparing Potions: 1001 tricks and techniques for the trainee_ while he was at it.

Well discouraged, Harry left the crush of the school section to meander over to the less popular, more esoteric books, which waited in muffled silence for its readers.

Severus Snape remained unfortunately close to the front of Harry's mind as he stoically turned to the section on mind magic. At first, he felt a smidgeon of relief that there seemed to be no books on the topic. It was a traitorous thought, that fact would have terrible implications for his best laid plans. But it was almost a good reason not to pursue the skill.

Could anyone really blame him if he failed to learn Occlumency? There was simply no way for him to learn…

Harry repressed the thought resolutely. There were people's lives at stake! Sirius, Hedwig, Tonks and Lupin…Harry let the painful thoughts trail off.

He poked around the shop for a good few minutes, but nothing caught his eye at all.

He almost asked for help, but a thought restrained him. His disguise might fail him at any time, and an eleven-year-old Boy-Who-Lived, asking for rare books on unusual, dangerous magic would probably end up in the Daily Prophet in the next issue.

The next two bookshops, second-hand ones, were both of them just as useless. Harry began to feel a little panicky and desperate as he kept a watch on the time.

Finally, Harry gave up.

He found his way back to the counter of the quietest, dingiest little store, crossed his fingers behind his back, and turned to the shopkeeper, who was nodding gently to herself in solitude.  
"'Scuse me, ma'am," Harry asked in his very best nervous eleven-year-old voice.

The little old woman's head jerked up, and a slow droning rhythm that Harry hadn't noticed stopped abruptly.

"Eh? Who's that? What? What?" The old lady fumbled around her neck, finally finding his glasses chain and placing them neatly on the end of her nose. "Oh. Who are you then?"

Now Harry felt guilty about waking the woman up, but he went on with his plan. He hoped he sounded as young as he knew he could look.

"My uncle's sent me to find a book. Do you have any books about …occlemen-, occulment-, occum-…books on mind magic please?"

Rheumy grey eyes peered at him from behind the thick frames. Harry waited a moment, and the woman gave a little sigh. Harry thought his 'pitiful child' act must have worked.

He waited patiently as the woman heaved herself down of the counter stool, and fumbled around for her walking stick. She was surprisingly stooped and small when she stood.

"Come along then, come along," the woman mumbled, and made her way past Harry's body.

Faster than he thought possible, the little old woman showed Harry up some rickety stairs he hadn't noticed. There was a small mezzanine balcony that looked out over the shop on one side, but on the other, against the wall, stood a ceiling high cabinet filled with books.

"Go ahead dearie," the lady croaked. "Somewhere on the left, it should be. My eyes aren't what they used to be, nor m'hearing, I'm afraid. What can you see there?"

She seemed to relax now she had shown Harry up the stairs, and her head drooped forward drowsily. Her breathing slowed, and Harry wondered if she had fallen asleep where she stood.

Harry diligently stepped forward and began reading the book spines. His heart-rate sped up: this book would be the key to his plans.

His eyes moved eagerly over the old, leather-bound books. These must be where the expensive ones were kept. He knew he was close.

But his initial excitement wore off quickly. Especially as he had to look twice. He was halfway through his third, slow and very thorough perusal of the shelves, when a very tiny gap between two larger tomes caught his eye.

With trembling fingers, he finally managed to work a slender little volume out from between its neighbours.

"Have you got it dearie?" The little old lady startled him, and Harry jumped. Clutching the little book closer to him, he glanced at the title.

 _Witches in Repose for the Discerning Wizard: Graphic Illustrations in Full Colour_.

Wizard porn. Harry hadn't even realised it was a thing.

Harry blushed. And then sighed deeply. He blushed again when he saw her looking at him curiously.

"Ah, no. Sorry, this isn't the one."

The little old lady hummed a little in disappointment, and after an awkward little pause Harry popped the book back on the shelf and they descended the stairs.

It looked like Diagon Alley did not have what he was looking for, and now he was out of time.

Harry let the shop door swing closed behind him with all the good grace of a grumpy goblin, and stumped off through the Leaky Cauldron to flag down a taxi to take him back to Little Whinging.

He relaxed in the back of the taxi, wishing he could pull a book out of his pouch and begin his research. Instead, for the whole trip he worried about his day, his Aunt, his Pensieve, and the miles swept past.

As they approached Privet Drive, Harry leaned forward and murmured to the driver. He dropped him off just around the corner of the Wisteria Walk entrance, and Harry scurried back to Mrs Figg's home, hopeful that his vigilance would stop any gossip reaching Aunt Petunia.

He saw Mrs Figg drop her front room curtains as he walked up to her door, and she meet him there moments later with a sly, smug smile on her face. It seemed horribly unjustified for her to seem so pleased with his circumstances, until Harry realised that she believed this to be his first introduction into the wonder that was magic.

At which point he felt his stomach drop, for now he would have to pretend to be thrilled at the unexpected adventure he had supposedly had.

"How did it go, boy?" the old woman asked eagerly.

"Wow," Harry answered, unsure of what to say. He couldn't say nothing was new, so he would have to lie. But she was a squib, and she thought he thought she was a muggle, so he could leave things out and she wouldn't worry. But she knew people with whom she could compare notes, so he would have to be careful with his words. He gave up on the complicated logic. "I don't know what to start with."

The old lady leaned back on her good leg, looking satisfied. "These learning experiences, I tell you. It just goes to show how much you still have to discover. How did it start?"

"Um," he stalled. "The taxi dropped me off at Charing Cross, and then – oh, I have your money!" He dropped the conversation to pat at his pockets, and realised with some consternation that they were empty. Dudley's pockets were inadequate: he'd thought that at the bank. His brain worked fast. "Er, if you'll excuse me, I got a little bag thing, I'll just…um…sorry if this looks weird…"

Turning his body to one side, he dug his hand inside Dudley's old shirt and fumbled his way into the mokeskin that sat next to his chest. He made sure he looked a little flustered, which was easy, as he groped around for the small wad of bank notes he'd made sure to exchange.

"Here you go," he withdrew his hand from his collar, and proudly displayed his haul. "These are for you, and I found – " …It wasn't a good idea to tell anyone that he had money in the bank… " – they gave me a little for me, too."

He went through the process of inserting his hand back into the pouch.

"Thank you very much for the taxi fare, Mrs Figg. If you don't mind, please don't tell Aunt Petunia I had to borrow some. She'll be horribly embarrassed to think about it."

He saw Mrs Figg pull a strange face. "I imagine she would. What happened next?"

"Well," Harry said with a smile. "I found out about school, and I sent off the official acceptance all by myself. I looked at lots of shops – I had no idea there was so much to find in London!"

"London's a big place," Mrs Figg agreed dryly, her usual sharp tongue surprisingly absent. "Who was the teacher who showed you around?"

"Oh," Harry gestured wildly with his hands. "The people were amazing. Everyone was so kind, and the shopkeepers were friendly, and the teachers seem to know so much! I feel like I'll never learn it all."

"Seven years goes faster than you think," his companion offered sagely. "You didn't bring things home with you?"

"Oh, I didn't have any money today," Harry confessed earnestly. "So I'll go again in about a week. I have so much to think about first."

He wondered uneasily if he was acting like a proper nervous eleven-year-old. The lying and deception felt dirty, Mrs Figg was only trying to help, but he'd only been eleven again for a week, and he'd been seventeen for a lot longer than that. Was he acting too young? Or too old?

Mrs Figg interrupted his thoughts.

"Well, I'm sure you have a lot to think about, and a lot to tell your Aunt, so come on in and perhaps we'll have a quiet afternoon on the couch. What do you say?"

"I'm very sorry, Mrs Figg," Harry apologised, relieved he could be wholehearted truthful. "I have far too much to think about to be quiet. Did you want me to help you with your garden?"

She tried to refuse him, but Harry was feeling stubborn.

"I know you can't get to them with your cast on, and I'm really good at weeding." He wondered if she kept her less muggle plants around the back. "Maybe just the front garden? Just the weeds?"

"Oh dear," the old woman sighed. "You're not wrong about my leg, and the garden has got away from me these last few weeks. You're sure it won't be a bother?"

"I'd like to say thanks," Harry told her honestly. "And it would give me a chance to think over things." So shortly thereafter he was crouched by her roses, digging in the dirt with his bare hands.

The conversation over, Harry was left to stew in his thoughts. Hedwig, how could he possibly lose Hedwig? It boggled the mind.

When the weight of his guilt grew too much, Harry worried about his Pensieve: would the shopkeep import it for him? It was vital to his plans.

And then the Occlumency bothered him: it was probably impossible for him to learn. He'd failed it last time, hadn't he? And he'd had a teacher then, hadn't he? Wasn't there so much that could go wrong just because he forgot a small detail?

Which brought him back to Hedwig again. And the Pensieve. And then Mrs Figg. How many other kindly friends and guardians was he going to have to lie to over the years? Wasn't Hermione sharp enough to figure it out? Or Ron, who knew him better than anybody? Or Luna, who seemed to know everything important about everybody before they ever spoke a word to her? Even Hedwig would have known, if he hadn't failed her. He took a moment to wallow in regret.

And what about Dumbledore or Snape, who could read him with their minds?

But Dumbledore had said that he should do this alone, had he not? So Harry would pick himself up and get smart, mustn't he?

Which brought him back to the Pensieve thing, and his thoughts kept swirling.

Harry had worked himself up into quite a frenzy, and drew himself out of the turmoil with a grunt.

His mind was a mess, his emotions were out of control, he felt sick to his stomach but at least his body was working.

Harry threw himself into the physical labour with relief. At least this was a familiar, simple thing.

He marvelled at the muscles in his arms, the nimbleness of his hands as he pulled and heaved the weeds out by their roots. He was so much smaller than he ever remembered being, so much less capable. And yet look at the wiry strength of his body. He felt a dubious flicker of thankfulness that the Dursleys had always worked him hard.

His body might be weedy and small, but it was fit and strong. It was one less thing he had to worry about developing.

His magic now, that was a whole other story.

His bleak mood turned his train of thoughts to the many ways his magic might be changed. Was his magic weaker than he was used to, having not been trained and used yet? Was his connection to his wand still weak? Did it trust him? Could relationships with wands develop differently depending on the different expectations of the wand user in question?

He growled furiously at a particularly stubborn weed. These were the kinds of stupid questions Hermione would find interesting. Why wasn't she here, instead of him?

Hermione would have come back in time with a solid understanding of what was about to happen. She would have made some twelve-stage plan with colour coordinated codes, and sorted the whole thing out in a year.

And probably pass her O.W.L.s early too.

He simply did not have her mind. How many ways could he stuff up before someone noticed what was going on?

Which brought his thoughts full circle, and Harry worried again that the Pensieve would fall through. His whole plan hinged now on that one detail. Without a Pensieve, Harry was stuck winging the whole thing, and look how well that had turned out for him today.

He didn't notice that in his frustration he had sliced open a cut on his palm. The blood oozed out of his fist, dripping thickly down the weed stem, but Harry simply tossed it blindly onto the top of the weed pile that was growing beside him.

He did not notice the hours pass, as he worked off his frustration under the hot sun. He did not even notice how tired he was feeling, how dry his throat felt, or how his muscles now shook every time he wrestled with a plant.

Harry's frustration turned to fury, only working itself out when he saw the spotless shoes of his Aunt appear before his eyes.

"You are making a scene out of yourself," Petunia's voice hissed, and he looked up with a start. She looked as fresh and clean as was to be expected, but her lips were tight with fury and the skin around her mouth was white.

Dudley's ponderous steps sounded from behind her, and he came into Harry's view looking smug and satisfied with his day.

"He's a red as a crayon and sweating like a tap, Mum!" was his astute comment, as he took in Harry's boiled-looking face.

Petunia could clearly not bring herself to disagree.

Harry glanced down at himself. He was sweating in puddles; his upper arms and neck were flushed unattractively and he was sure his face looked worse. He had somehow smeared a lot of blood across the front of his t-shirt and trousers. Beside him sat a monstrous pile of weeds, precariously tilting in his direction. Mrs Figg's garden must grow far faster than Aunt Petunia's. Maybe it was a magic thing. Were there potions for gardening? His hands were sliced up, to his surprised dismay, and the front window curtain of the house opposite was swinging as if someone had just let it go.

There was going to be a rumour about this. He swallowed.

"You will," Petunia's voice shook with her embarrassment and fury, "Immediately tidy this garden as though you were never here. You will go inside and thank Mrs Figg for looking after you. You will walk home immediately – I'm not having you in my car, and you will wash yourself down with the hose before stepping inside my house where you will not exit your room for the rest of the day. Is this understood?"

Of course, she could not actually tell him not to stink up the house and crawl back into the cupboard while they were standing outside in full view of the neighbours.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

Dudley smirked at him as Harry picked himself up. There would be no dinner for him tonight, it seemed.

But Harry could not bring himself to mind too much. The Dursleys did not know what he had in the pouch he had secreted inside his shirt.


	4. Starting Small

It was a few short minutes later that Harry stumbled heavily into his cupboard, his muscles beginning to complain at the labour. He'd managed to rinse himself off pretty well with the hose, and sneak a good long drink while he was at it. He was pretty sure he was young enough for his body to be used to the habit – it was only after he went to Hogwarts that he had become used to good food and clean water, was it not?

He hoped his Pensieve would arrive soon.

So he dried himself off and crawled into his small space, hiding his confusion and satisfaction from his Aunt. For what did he want most of all right now, but a little privacy in which he could experiment?

He had barely settled down when he saw a shadow outside the cupboard door, and heard the deadbolt slide into place.

Harry waited in quiet expectation as the figure turned and walked away. He heard Petunia start fussing with something in the kitchen, heard Dudley in the lounge and the opening soundtrack of some new show on the comedy channel building up. Vernon would not be home for hours. The whole family would keep busy and not spare him a thought.

With great anticipation, he reached into his mokeskin pouch and pulled out the little box containing his wand.

Harry held the box eagerly in his hands. After the long walk in the Forbidden Forest, it seemed a bit ridiculous that his hands were also trembling here, but now he could embrace the tension, end the suspense, and he suddenly tore the box open with haste.

He held his wand upright in the air. It was difficult to see, after the bright sunlight of the afternoon and the dimness of his cupboard – Aunt Petunia had taken out his lightbulb years ago – but it felt familiar to his fingers. The wood was warm, and welcoming.

His fingers tingled just the slightest amount.

All the things he could do now, and totally Traceless for a month! Where should he start?

His mind turned over the litany of familiar spells in his memory. He needed to start small, build up, see what he could still do and what needed work.

A first or second year spell, perhaps, was starting small.

He looked around at the dimness of his cupboard. A match into a needle was not quite appropriate to the occasion.

He held the wand close to his mouth, and whispered softly, " _Lumos."_

It was with relief, but not great surprise, that he saw a warm gleam swell gently into existence at the tip of his wand. Harry concentrated, and the light brightened, casting soft shadows on the walls of his cupboard and giving a golden cast to the light of the room. He sat there for a few long minutes, just marvelling at the beauty of the moment. No Ministry owl burst into the cupboard, no shriek of horror came from the kitchen or the lounge.

It seemed Ollivander was right.

" _Nox._ "

The light blinked off immediately.

" _Lumos_." This time the light was quicker, no gradual brightening, no gentle burgeoning of radiance. The steady glow was stable and strong, nothing tentative about it.

" _Nox._ " Harry sat back in satisfaction.

His magic worked fine. The wand had seemed a little hesitant at first, but was warming up to him quickly. Despite returning to his eleven-year-old body, with its unpractised magic, his proficiency with the spell still existed. That was not to say it felt the same as it had in his sixth year, or later; the magic came a little sluggishly, and little weaker than he remembered, but perhaps that was an effect of his youth? His lack of health?

Harry wondered if spell mastery needed more than knowledge – a deeper well of magic that came with age? A form a magical muscle-memory he was temporarily lacking? – or perhaps a consequence of the fact that he had not yet earned the full trust of his new wand.

But the problem seemed small, the difference miniscule.

He was pleased with the implications.

He looked at the trifling treasures he had stored on the flimsy shelves behind him.

He picked up a handful of tiny plastic soldiers. Dudley had once had hundreds, and laid them all over the house before starting a pitched battle that had left most of them crushed and broken within days. Even at seven, Dudley had played with his toys like a heavy-duty steamroller. Later, little Harry had crawled around and found remnants, hidden under the couches, brushed up behind curtains and tucked into out of the way corners, and claimed them for his own.

Harry sat one on the floor.

A moment later he was looking at a perfectly shaped matchstick. He picked it up, it was light, it was skinny, it felt like wood to his fingertips – he brought it to his face and sniffed – yes, there was the faintest smell of sulphur.

He replaced it on the floor, and waved his wand again.

Now, instead, there sat a single gleaming needle. He tried to pick it up, it was hard in the dark and on the uneven floor, but eventually caught it by his nails and held it up to the light.

Yes, it shone silver, reflecting the light through the cracks in his door. The eye of the needle was barely visible in the gloom, and – ouch, he winced as he jerked his finger back – it was very sharp and solid.

He returned it to the floor and began running through the earliest transfigurations he could remember. The needle became beetle, which became a button. The button turned into a bone. Harry Vanished it, and pulled out another soldier.

He switched to non-verbal Transfiguration, and saw a teapot, a tortoise, and hare and a hedgehog pop into being by his crossed ankles. They looked a little sleepy, perhaps he should work on his inanimate to animate Transfigurations tomorrow. He practiced his Switching, watching in childish delight as he swapped things all over the room.

Finally, he turned another soldier into a transparent crystal goblet, with a wide but delicate base with fractal diamond facets, a tall, graceful stem, and a delicately frosted bowl that faded seamlessly into a clear, spotless rim. It looked like something he might find at Andromeda's house. Elegant, stylish and expensive. He called a bluebell flame, and shortly thereafter had it dancing tranquilly within the see-through goblet.

Now that he had independent light, he started whipping through his other simple spells. _Muffliato_ first helped hide his actions from his family. A quick _Reparo_ fixed up the break in his glasses – he shook the cellotape away with relief, and was also tested on the single half-melted plastic soldier, who had been found mostly dead, hiding under the stove. The parade of little men then tangoed back to their place of the shelf. Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully: his tango charm could also be improved. Harry swore to work on it when he had time. The cushioning charm had him settled more comfortably on the floor. _Wingardium Leviosa_ gave him no trouble at all. _Accio_ was so easy he could do it silently and with a mere twitch of his wand. He set to work reproducing some of the protective enchantments that he and Hermione had spent the year perfecting while they camped. Now he had more confidence, a weak muggle-repelling charm was first, hopefully enough to give him privacy in his cupboard without driving the Dursleys out of their house. _Cave Inimicum_ followed next. His wand flickered in the firelight.

He sat back an indeterminate time later, a little short of breath.

He had tried more than enough spells for more than enough time to attract the Ministry warning, if it was going to happen. He was safe.

His memories of spells were generally clear, the theory travelled back in time as unadulterated as anything he could remember aged seventeen. His magic was willing, but weak. First to fourth year spells were easy. The well-practiced spells he used to use regularly were too. His O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. level spells tended to work only part way, and fall apart quickly, and were otherwise difficult for him to complete. All nonverbal spells except _Accio_ and those forTransfiguration failed him. He had established his magic was undisciplined, lacking the control for detailed work. His magic needed exercise.

He longed to try his Patronus, but there was no way Prongs could fit in his cupboard. He'd have to try it later.

It was a better beginning than he had hoped for.

He put out the bluebell flame, untransfigured the goblet, and went to sleep.

Harry woke up the next morning feeling unsettled. His protective enchantments must have failed in the night, since he woke with a jolt when Aunt Petunia rapped on his door, thereby proving his magic was weaker even in those spells he could still perform.

He pottered about the kitchen, planning his week.

Harry really wanted to practice his Defence, but he needed to be somewhere unseen. He wanted to learn more to fight against Voldemort, but he had no funds yet for research. He desperately needed to plan his attack, but must wait for the Pensieve.

The family wandered on in to have breakfast, and he glanced at Petunia out of the corner of his eyes. She had calmed down from yesterday, her fear of the gossip around at his public spectacle apparently countered, if not forgotten. She didn't seem to have heard anything about a taxi picking him up yesterday, she sent him no more apprehensive glances or distrustful looks than usual.

It seemed she had not even suspected that Harry had received an invitation to Hogwarts as her sister once did. So determined was she to pretend magic did not exist, it seemed the worst had simply not occurred to her.

Harry wondered how to break the news.

The thought slowly occurred to him, elbow deep in soapsuds, that his simple actions here had the potential to change years of their relationship. Huge changes could occur depending on whether he intimidated the Dursleys as Hagrid had done, or broke the news to them gently. Perhaps he need not tell them about Hogwarts at all; a few Confundus Charms before he left for school, a couple of Confusing Concoctions every year in June and August…

The changes in his life would be enormous. But he was not well read in mind-magics. There was a lot that could go wrong, after all.

The realisation unfolded in his mind that the potential for mistakes in the timeline was far greater than he had originally anticipated. It seemed even his own actions and inactions had the potential to create chaos in his plans. In events of random chance, would they occur as he remembered? Would the Weasleys still win that trip to Egypt that led Sirius to escape from Azkaban? Potential changes rippling out from his decisions, affecting the timeline, could create for him an unrecognisable world. What would happen if he was polite to Malfoy on the train?

His mind drifted back to the Dursleys. Without the letters, without Hagrid, the chances of him relocating into Dudley's second bedroom were close to nil. Then again, without Hedwig, why would he need a window?

Which meant he must not relinquish his wand to Vernon during the holidays, for the Weasleys would never rescue him by destroying the bars on his window…Ron would not learn how to fly the Ford Anglia, the car would not escape into the Forbidden Forest, they would not be rescued from the Acromantula, _plus_ his friends might not send him food over summer.

All this because he stuffed a letter down his pants.

The implications were staggering. If only he had Hermione's mind.

Unhappily, Harry finally decided against attempting to recreate his previous life. It would be safer if he could, but his chances of success were negligible, and with his luck things would go wrong spectacularly. Going back to the messy mind-map he had scrawled in his cupboard, he chose a few key moments that he would work to protect, and then left the rest of it up to fate. He would be sorted into Gryffindor, he would be friends with Ron and Hermione, and Neville and Luna, he would let Peter Pettigrew escape, and save Sirius, and face Voldemort at the end of the Triwizard Cup. Aside from that, he would face life as it came.

It was possibly the most he could manage.

The cold practicality of it depressed him, but dwelling on his significant goals ultimately reminded Harry of the one resource he had failed to find a trace of in Diagon Alley the day before.

He crept into his cupboard, charmed it comfortable and forgotten by his family, and settled in to self-study the little that he could recall of the magics of the mind.

He was not optimistic. It was true that his strengths had always been learning magic that would help his survival. But he tended to be good at showy magic, large magic, active magic. Magic that produced immediate and obvious results.

But…an invisible magical discipline that only worked inside his mind?

He scratched his head and knuckled down to work.

He emerged ten minutes later to scrounge himself up a pen and paper – Dudley would never notice them missing from his room – and climbed up the steps after he made sure to locate his cousin in front of the telly, yet again.

This unTraceable thing was convenient, a wave of his wand and the stationery came hurtling through the air towards him in mere seconds. There was no risk of anyone finding him rooting around in Dudley's room at all.

He returned to his cupboard, with its privacy and security, lit his wand up to a steady shine, and lay down on his stomach to recall all the instructions that he could.

He emerged a few hours later in time for a small lunch and a long list of chores. His Occlumency practice had not gone well at all. What does an empty mind look like, after all?

How would he know when he found it?

He had even swallowed his pride and gone back to what little he remembered of Snape's most explicit instructions, "Clear your mind." And – surprise, surprise – had not had any luck at all.

His worries and regrets: Hedwig, Petunia, Mrs Figg, Snape himself, the Pensieve – they all swirled around and around in his brain, and his stomach felt as heavy as a stone. He'd managed to work himself into a frenzy of panic while sitting completely still and safe in his very own cupboard. There was so much to do!

He wasn't giving up, exactly, but a change of pace would do him good.

If only he had his broomstick.

Instead, Harry trudged outside to the back garden shed and picked up Uncle Vernon's newest tool; it was time to pull his weight in chores and aerate Petunia's lawn.

The time thus passed without much success, the highlight to Harry's day being the few hours with his wand that he snuck in after dinner. He managed to dash out of the house without the Dursleys catching him, and warded a little alleyway to give him some privacy.

" _Expecto Patronum_!" he called, as soon as the enchantments had gone up. To his immense satisfaction, the huge, silvery body of Prongs towered before him, peace and love radiating out like heat.

"Prongs," Harry whispered in contentment, and he looked over the stag with affection. Was it his imagination, or was Prongs more solid than he had been expecting? A little taller, a little brighter…

Harry worked it out. The Patronus was a spell that fed on emotion, after all. It didn't depend so much on technical ability or magical discipline. And here he was, having actually, finally, met his dad, his father's shade, as he walked to his death in the Forbidden Forest.

Perhaps it was a trick, the stone some kind of instrument that projected what he wanted to see, but Harry thought that the Peverell brother who had made the Hallow truly had managed to recall spirits from their afterlife.

For the first time in his life, he had seen his father, watched him smile, felt his love.

And now that was imbued in Prongs.

His life was chaotic, but Harry felt a little peace seep into his heart.

He kept on with his spell-work over the next few days, practicing the school spells, exercising his discipline, and bonding with his wand. Although he wracked his brains, went over past exams, tried to recall homework, even walked himself through his Triwizard preparation and Dumbledore's Army lessons, he was sure that he was missing huge chunks of spells from his repertoire even as he learned to cast the rest more efficiently.

He found the work less exhausting as he practiced.

The transfigured goblet that once lasted him one hour, now lasted him four. His muggle-repelling charms that kept Petunia away from his cupboard now had to be brought down before he slept, otherwise she would forget to wake him to make breakfast.

He only did that once, stirring and stretching just after nine in the morning, before he realised that when he failed to cook the family breakfast, he failed to secure food for himself.

That was another deficiency that he could see to once he had full access to his Gringotts account.

The darkness of his most recent memories continued to drive him back into the frustrating memories of lessons with Snape, despite the fact that he was still stuck on the first step of Occlumency.

But he was at war, he reminded himself firmly every time he wanted to give up.

He was alone.

He could trust no one, particularly those he knew were most proficient in Legilimency and most likely to try to enter his mind.

Was anyone likely to try that in his first year? He couldn't be sure. Although there was that one time with Quirrell and the mirror when Voldemort knew he was lying. Was that Legilimency? Or just the product of a suspicious mind?

The Dursleys were somewhat obvious in their relief that the floaty contentment from before his birthday had shattered and fractured. Petunia stopped twitching when he came up quietly behind her, Vernon stopped staring at him out of the corner of his eyes.

And Harry continued to simmer in frustration, and practiced his magic, and failed to Occlude anything at all.


	5. Wrinkles in the Plan

The frustrating week passed with agonising slowness.

Harry was pleased to note that his magic was answering his needs more strongly. The constant demands he placed on himself meant that his abilities were advancing.

Despite the fact that Harry was earnestly attempting to master Occlumency – as he had never bothered to do before – it took him an embarrassingly long time to realise that when he practiced clearing his mind, when he thought of nothing for minutes of end, what he was actually trying to do was meditation.

Hermione had probably realised all of this years ago, and Harry felt particularly stupid when the thought occurred to him. Meditation: muggles did it too. He thought he might have a general idea of where to start if he was practicing meditation. It involved crossing your legs on the floor and saying, "Ohmmm," Harry recalled. The thought made him feel tentatively hopeful. He felt a bit silly doing it, but this was progress.

Yet despite the breakthrough, his practical experience increasing, his success at clearing his mind and thinking of nothing, improved not one bit.

It was an old magic, Harry knew. Not popular, with no new, exciting developments to record in recent years.

He held out hope that he could find more resources on the topic, but was pessimistic. Even Snape hadn't given him any written texts to help him learn the skill. And Snape was the kind of teacher who would enjoy piling Harry high with instructions written by mountain Hermits from the 1400s, before telling him to finish it all in a week. Then, Snape would have made him write a six-foot essay on the subject, just for spite. That he hadn't, implied that there were no written resources available.

He promised himself he would do an hour of practice before bed every day, anyway.

It turned out that meditating on his bed just made him fall asleep faster. It only took two days for him to shift to a spot on the floor of his cupboard, where he sat cross-legged on the solid ground. His mind filled with busy thoughts, worries, things to do, his hopes and plan. Then he would catch himself, and drag his mind back on task.

His enthusiasm quickly settled into a grim, dogged determination. He had always been called stubborn. This was something worthwhile that he simply could not fail to accomplish.

But the worry and frustration haunted Harry all week. He indulged in it for a day or so – Hedwig, of all things! – but finally had to pull himself together.

"Harry," he told himself, looking at his reflection in a conjured mirror one day. "You're not eleven anymore, Snape would be impossible if he found you wallowing in pity as you are. No one's dead yet, nothing's been ruined, but here you are sitting around on your butt assuming you'll fail."

He promptly felt ridiculous talking to himself, Ron would be laughing his ass off, but he felt a bit better. It was true, all the pain and the fear he had struggled with were years into the future. All the guilt, all the deaths, were preventable. And the assumption of failure was a practical guarantee that things would go wrong.

If Padfoot could get up and go when he was locked up in Azkaban with the Dementors – another guilt, another worry, he pushed the thought away – Harry could certainly self-study in his own room.

He returned to his Transfiguration practice, mirror to magpie, and pushed the emotions away.

So his magic kept getting stronger, responding a little faster, his wand-work a little more precise.

Which was helpful, because on the very morning his seven-day wait was up, Harry hid himself from the Dursley's gaze, retied his handkerchief bandana across his forehead, crossed his fingers, and Apparated all the way to Diagon Alley.

It was chancy, working such magic over such a long distance as an underage wizard. But Harry thought it was worth the calculated risk. His magic was already somewhat improved, he would be arriving in a place where many witches and wizards would find him and recognise the symptoms if something went wrong, and he had a whole year of illegal Apparating practice behind him in experience, if not in body.

Harry landed at the Apparition point in Diagon Alley with a thump. He staggered, the ride was not as smooth as it had been when he was seventeen, but he patted himself down and was pleased to find that he had left nothing behind. Even his eyebrows had survived the trip safely.

The first port of call was obviously going to be Gringotts, and Harry joined the early morning queues while keeping an eye out for familiar smirking goblins and anyone else he knew. When he reached the front of the line, a disinterested goblin teller declared his account all in order, and required he register his wand at once.

Harry dug around gamely in his mokeskin pouch, still located safely, as always, around his neck and under his shirt. The tall witch in maroon robes behind him muttered impatiently as he fumbled around, and he was careful not to meet anyone's eyes while he then waited for another goblin to accompany him to the carts.

The quick trip down netted Harry a further pile of galleons. He poured handful after handful of galleons and sickles into the money pouch he had bought especially. He was never going to find himself short on coinage again, and he had a lot of spending to do today alone. Finally feeling the feather-weight charm reach its limit, Harry stopped his actions and returned the pouch into the mokeskin. His goblin escort grunted, and they returned to the surface with another bone-rattling cart ride. At last, he had the time and circumstances to indulge in a highly anticipated extravagance.

Harry found himself approaching a familiar store, Stowe and Packers Magical Bags, which was located next to Twilfitt and Tattings, in the high-end, fashionable part of Diagon Alley. His last trip here he hadn't thought to worry, but he was a little nervous about his appearance, the well-dressed witches and wizards looked particularly particular about such things, but to his mild astonishment, he barely seemed to stand out.

Of course, Harry realised, as he thought back to his years of experience with wizarding-kind, street urchins and beggars and vagrants were certainly not uncommon on the streets. Perhaps they looked straight passed him. This running around alone, without escort or security, seemed to protect him quite well from being recognised and mobbed.

The bell tinkled as he entered the door.

The shop was quieter today than it had been last week, although Harry was here only a few hours earlier in the day. There were only a couple of people he could see on the floor, and the friendly owner he had dealt with last time was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he spied a tall, skinny salesman dressed smartly in garishly coloured robes, fussing about another client, leaving Harry free to explore the stock.

Luggage in all sizes and colours, in stacks on the floor and shelves on the walls, were scattered about in the shop. Tidy rows of leather bags hung behind the counter. Harry had bought his money pouch from there with ease, but the very rare collection of mokeskins that he knew they stocked were hidden out the back and only available upon request.

He redirected his attention to the luggage display near the front. There were handwritten signs that described some of the products, and he ran his eyes over them hopefully.

 _Standard school trunk: twenty five galleons_

 _Ravenclaw trunk: thirty five galleons_

 _Slytherin trunk: thirty eight galleons_

He stopped to read the small print, wondering at the price difference. Hagrid had organised all of this for him last time, what was a standard school trunk lacking?

" _Revolving bookshelf now containing space for up to thirty books!"_ The little blue sign proclaimed.

"Oh," Harry mouthed silently. Well, that made sense. He wondered if Hermione had bought one. They'd never discussed those kinds of things. He looked thoughtfully at the other sign, the green one. " _Now containing two more charms for your security!"_ That didn't surprise him either. He couldn't imagine Malfoy hiding all the illegal trinkets from his father in some standard trunk that just anyone could break into.

But they weren't quite what he wanted, and he wandered over to a more expensive-looking corner, looking for inspiration.

The variety was huge. On his left, behind a thick wooden fence, stood a single dark leather luggage. Deep scuffs marked the railing surrounding it. As Harry leaned over in interest, the luggage came to life, and charged straight at him, its lid snapping closed near his fingers.

He quickly withdrew himself, and moved on.

To his right, there looked to be sleeping trunks stacked not too far away, made from woods ranging from dark brown to light gold. One little trunk near the top of the pile caught Harry's fancy, it whistled a little as it slept, hundreds of little tiny legs pedalling madly in the air. It reminded him of a dreaming puppy.

There were huge trunks, small trunks, trunks of all different colours and shapes. Trunks with legs, and trunks with…

All the trunks with wings were made from leather – dragon leather, Harry would bet, and he eyed a rope tied down to a corner in confusion, until he followed it up to the ceiling, and realised it was probably connected to an invisible trunk that floated somewhere in the air. Each one had their varying, different enchantments.

A week earlier and he would have been thrilled to walk off with a trunk charmed weightless and invisible, but the past week of planning had changed his mind.

His Pensieve would need to travel with him. Secure. And safe. And it would have to be in an enchanted magical extension.

The price was going to be horrendous.

Finally, he heard the tinkling of the door, and the sales assistant was seeing the other client out. The well-dressed young man immediately approached Harry, possibly in an attempt to hustle the eleven-year-old out of the shop. Harry cut him off with a firm demand to be shown, "The high-end trunks, please, I'm in a hurry."

The tall man was slender to the point of being skinny, and he could not quite pull off the raucous colours he was wearing on his robes. They were clearly the cutting edge of fashion but the dizzying stripes in green and pink, combined with a scraggly beard that was refusing to grow in, simply made it seem like he was trying too hard. He looked to be in his early twenties. Harry felt sorry for him. But he was obviously enthusiastic about his job catering to the magical elite.

Nevertheless, the man clearly thought he was very well presented, and looked doubtfully at Harry in the light. Harry's oversized muggle clothes and questionable checkered handkerchief were once again under scrutiny.

Harry pulled his mokeskin pouch out from underneath his shirt, and patted it reassuringly. The attendant remained doubtful, but drew Harry back towards the tidy student luggage display.

Harry realised that he would have to be more direct.

"I am hoping for a dragonskin trunk, charmed weightless and disillusioned, highly secure, with extension charms on at least two generous sized compartments." He lifted his chin, "I plan to use one compartment as my study while I travel, so my luggage must be warded against any and all magic leakage for my security."

He noticed the shop assistant's veiled reservations. "This will be a long-term investment, and will be used well into my career," he continued with a straight face. Confounding the Trace had nothing to do with his interest in privacy! Was he laying the act on too thick? He faltered, and then went on. "The study will also function as my library, and my eventual intention is to set up a permanent Pensieve to travel with me. Is this possible with any of the stock you have on hand?"

Harry watched in amusement as his confidence successfully baffled the snobby shop assistant. After a brief moment where his expression wavered amusingly, the man drew himself up to his full height, brushed his hands off and adjusted his attitude. Obsequiously.

"I do apologise sir, I thought you were wanting a high-quality _standard_ trunk. If you would follow me into the back room, I have few special items that I think will be perfect for your purposes. First," they stepped through a door Harry hadn't noticed and into a very bare antechamber. "I draw your attention to the Romanian Longhorn leather trunk on your left: this trunk is recommended for only the most elevated of wizards, note the luscious shine of the green leather and self-shining gold edging? Three large compartments, perfect for entertaining? No?

"Then how about this Swedish Short-Snout leather trunk? It comes with five moderately sized compartments perfect for storage and eight spider-legs, able to follow you over any terrain, freeing your wand up for other work? Not for you?"

Harry watched the man's sales pitch in fascination. The liquid sales patter fell smoothly off his tongue, but in his enthusiasm the man had clearly forgotten to breathe. His skin was slowly turning into a mottled shade of puce.

"Then my best recommendation, good sir," he said, having built up to a convincing tempo, "is this Ukranian Ironbelly leather masterpiece. Only three compartments sir, of moderate size, but with only the best of enchantments, plus four keys are magically bound to your person allowing you to enter, secure, and enchant your luggage without requiring active wandwork. This magnificent craftsmanship will allow you to perform magic inside the trunk, sir! No threat to the enchantments whatsoever! Fantastically stable runework will hold your Pensieve safe as long as you want, charged by your connection to the keys, sir. And as an added bonus, they allow you to tether, weight manage and disillusion the trunk without active use of your wand sir. The invisible tether will have it follow you around without your attention! This metallic grey colour and subtle copper finishing ensures you can travel the globe without drawing attention, sir, perfect for the aspiring magizoologist or adventurer."

The poor assistant paused, panting for breath as his face slowly regained its normal colouring.

Harry was impressed despite himself. Space-creating charms that were stable enough to work magic in? Pre-charmed to allow disillusionment and weightlessness to be controlled by passive magic only? It seemed perfect. He leaned closer. Although it looked far more solid than a muggle trunk, in the magic world, it would not stand out.

"Would you show me the inside?"

The earnest shop assistant took a further gulp of air, and toggled the lock to tilt as far left as it would go. Harry's eyebrows rose.

"The multiple compartments are accessed by adjusting the tilt of the lock," the man continued. "In conjunction with the correct key. The added complexity of the system is necessary to support the stability of the enchantments without losing security. If you would follow me, sir."

Smiling professionally in Harry's direction, the man then opened the lid and stepped firmly down into the first compartment. Harry followed behind.

They emerged from the trunk for good ten minutes later. Harry cut the sales pitch short due to concern for the poor man's lung capacity. He was content with this, but still…It looked less attention-grabbing than Professor Moody's trunk of fourth-year, but was probably also somewhat less secure.

"I don't suppose it can be shrunk?" he enquired hopefully.

"No space-enhanced objects can be successfully reduced, sir!" he was firmly told. "As I'm sure a man of your resources already knows. Anyone who tells you so is a charlatan and a fraud, sir. Stowe and Packers is a reputable establishment."

"Er, sorry." Harry apologised. "It was worth double checking. I don't suppose you have anything from Basilisk skin?" Dragonhide was highly reputable, but having had occasion to fight closely against both, he would like to compare the utility.

The shocked look on the shop assistant's face, and his sudden lack of sales patter, or indeed, words at all, answered that question rather rapidly, and Harry nodded sharply.

"Then I'll take this one please," he instructed. "Work me into the wards now, and I'll use it immediately."

Harry handed over an extravagant amount of money, his hands not even trembling at all. In only two shops this week, he had just spent more money than he had gone through in his entire previous timeline! Not to mention, he was not finished yet!

But, it was all for a good cause. With the help of the Pensieve and this trunk, Harry estimated that his chances of success at defeating Voldemort increased significantly.

Imbuing his magic into the set of keys, Harry experimented with tethering and hiding his trunk, before restoring its visibility and lightening it enough to float. Having arranged himself to his satisfaction, he left the store, pouch still secure around his neck and his new metallic grey luggage bobbing along in his wake.

He stopped past the Owl Post Office for a quick visit, collecting the few postal items that he had previously asked the office to hold for him.

His Hogwarts Express ticket had arrived safely, so he tucked it into his mokeskin pouch for safety and ease of access. A week's worth of Daily Prophet had been held for him, and Harry popped them inside his trunk for perusal at home. Professor McGonagall had sent him a receipt for his acceptance into Hogwarts, and included an introductory pamphlet for muggle-born students.

That was a surprise. Harry supposed it had something to do with Hagrid not picking him up. Changes in the timeline indeed. Harry glanced through it immediately.

If only he had received one of these before, how much less intimidating his new life would have been!

He was fascinated to see the official explanation of the Wizarding World. The slender pamphlet was printed on creamy paper, with the logo of the Ministry of Magic stamped prominently on the top right corner. A wizarding photograph of a very happy group of people – dressed in muggle clothes that looked like they came from the 1960s – waved cheerily at him from the front page. Smaller text below the picture described its contents.

 _Welcome to your new Magical Life_

 _Minister Fudge and his Ministry of Magic welcome our new members to magical society. The life that you thought you knew will be revolutionised by the magical possibilities now open to you!_

 _For an explanation of Magical Britain, turn to pages 2-3._

 _To learn about the Ministry and how it protects you, see pages 4-5._

 _For a brief history of Hogwarts and what it offers, turn to page 6-9._

 _Find the explanation and map of Diagon Alley on pages 10-13._

 _Learn to deal safely with non-humans on page 14._

 _To learn exchange rates, find page 15. Visit Gringotts for more details (see map, page 10)._

 _For more detail, see_ Wizardry through the World _by Bartimaeus Babbling, available from Flourish and Blotts (see map)._

It looked like it was released by the same people who designed the Daily Prophet. The whole thing was very brief and simplistic in tone. The maps, the histories and the guidelines made all the challenges muggle-born faced seem straightforward and easily overcome. A forgivable optimistic bent, Harry supposed, given its role in welcoming new muggleborns into society. A slightly darker tone caught his eye as he flipped through it: nothing specific was stated, but the wording implied worrying things about goblins and centaurs in particular, while simultaneously brushing off their importance. His eyes skimmed the pages quickly. Harry had mixed feelings about the whole thing. However, just this much information would have helped him out immensely those first few weeks of Hogwarts the first time around. He made a note to research more of the structure behind the society sometime when he was free. And buy that book.

Harry snapped the pamphlet closed, and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt. It was time to get back to his plan and get focussed.

Which meant it was time to indulge in some more shopping.

Harry browsed through Flourish and Blotts with a singled-minded focus that would have impressed Hermione, had she but seen him. The textbooks he needed from the first year set books list were easy to secure. The special Hogwarts corner of the shop had everything organised by subject. He indulged in the Defence Against the Dark Arts shelf, and picked up one for each school year. He was particularly interested in the seventh-year text. His own schooling experience had caused him to miss out on a lot of basic knowledge, so solid textbooks would really help fill in the gaps. He wouldn't get a chance to buy these particular books again, he knew. Every Defence teacher chose their own set texts. He'd have to do the same thing again in third year.

He went back to find a few supplementary titles for a number of subjects: _The Delights and Dangers of Potions and Poisons_ that he spotted a week ago looked like it could point him in the direction of some helpful concoctions, and alert him to dangerous misuse too. A dark brown, inches-thick tome, called _Slicing and Stirring: Proper Procedures in Potion Preparation_ by Oisin Onions looked like something that might take the heat off him in class as well, so he threw it onto the pile right on top of the book he had taken note of a week earlier, _Preparing Potions: 1001 tricks and techniques for the trainee_. Not that it was important in the grand scheme of things, but since he had the chance, Harry planned on not inciting the wrath and hatred of Snape if he could help it.

A number of basic texts he discovered but discarded. They would be freely available from the Hogwarts Library in less than one month. He poured over the practical spellwork books, and ultimately purchased a handful that concentrated on either the fundamentals, that he had never bothered to learn, or the advanced stuff. He didn't want people looking up his library history and realising what he was reading.

The Ministry-recommended _Wizardry through the World_ turned out to be a medium-sized volume written in moderately accessible language, giving a brief overview of magical cultures around the globe. Although the emphasis was on Britain, Harry realized that even a quick glance through the book would give him more understanding of wizarding culture than he had gained through seven years of school. He added it to his growing stack.

But although he looked, there was still nothing on Occlumency.

In his week of contemplation and planning, Harry had dreamed of what he would spend his money on. Hermione, he knew, would focus on the theories, the histories of the world, until she could say she understood how everything developed as it had, why it had developed that way, and what precisely she could do to change particulars. Harry didn't work that way. His theory was fine, basic perhaps, he could certainly work on it, but he was more of a practical kind of guy.

No matter how hard he worked, Voldemort had over sixty years over him. He was never going to catch up on the many decades of learning the esoteric secrets of the Dark Arts. What Harry was aiming for were the skills necessary for the success of one, specific plan. How to kill six Horcruxes in secret, and then end the dark wizard who created them. He hoped it would be enough.

And really, he'd done most of it before. It was just his duelling that needed work.

He staggered to the till, just making it to the counter before the armload spilled sideways, and then popped them all in his handy new trunk.

On to the next shop.

Harry entered Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions watchfully, remembering his previous first meeting with a certain blond pureblood. The shop was certainly busy, but only an older boy he vaguely recognised was being fitted for seventh year robes, and Harry did not draw attention to himself.

Standing on the second stool, Harry was quickly measured for his school robes, plus a few extra essential wizarding items he was intending to need.

"Hogwarts for you?" Madam Malkin's assistant asked, as Harry stepped onto the school. "We've been right busy with school fittings all week."

"Mmm," said Harry. His plans suddenly changing in his mind. "The full set of school stuff please, plus a few extras for home wear." His purchases would round out his wardrobe and allow him to fit anonymously into wizarding society.

"I'll wear a set of robes out, if you don't mind," Harry continued. The shop assistant, with six pins held firmly in her mouth, met Harry's gaze.

"Mmm hrmm mmmm," she agreed. Harry recognised with a silent sigh that he was once again being judged for his admittedly embarrassing clothes. The obviously hand-me-down look, the wrong size, and the trousers held up with rope were definitely not doing him any favours.

A short time later, and Harry stepped out of the shop, his school items and new clothes hung carefully inside the second compartment of his trunk. A new midnight blue robe hung perfectly around his shoulders, and Harry had even planned ahead and sported an open-necked cloak that came with a rather deep hood. He'd used a moment of the assistant's distraction to whip off the ridiculous handkerchief, and drew the hood over his face deeply. He felt that he could now walk through Diagon Alley without attracting a second glance.

He could have kicked himself. Most wizards went all the way through their lives wearing tidy clothes that actually fit. Just because Harry hadn't done so before didn't mean he shouldn't have thought of the idea earlier! Apparently, he had been rather blinkered by his frustration with, well, the week.

If his Hermione had been with him – well, she had never commented on his wardrobe before. Perhaps she had never realised…the entirely new thought completely derailed Harry from his thoughts. Had Hermione never realised how unhappy he was out of Hogwarts? She fought for House Elf rights, surely she would have fought for his too it she'd known… he dragged his mind back on track.

But if she _had_ known his circumstances, and had been with him, Harry knew she would have included plans on how to become inconspicuous even before she had first stepped into the wizarding world. But she wasn't here. Harry swallowed loudly. He would have to do his own thinking for himself this time.

Harry made a mental note to try to see the whole picture in the future, rather than being simply blinded by his quest to defeat Voldemort. It looked like his goal would take more cunning and planning that he had expected.

He stopped off at Obscurus Books, although he only found another six books to add to his trunk – still nothing on Occlumency, and then the Apothecary, where he may have spent too much money.

But after all, Harry reasoned, as he handed over another outrageous handful of gold, it wasn't as though he was still melting his cauldrons these days. And he didn't know if he would need to make himself potions that called for bronze or copper or pewter. He looked longingly at the solid gold cauldron that would definitely be needed if he ever wanted to make Felix Felicis. But he was far from that stage.

"Oh," Harry turned back as he started packing his purchases into his trunk. "Please throw in a Bezoar too." Ron, drooling gormlessly and hopelessly in lust, was not a sight he wanted to see again.

He added the clump of matted matter onto the top of his first year potions supplies, and reached again for his gold.

His day was beginning to seem long and exhausting, but he duly visited each second-hand bookstore for a meagre few more purchases. They were older books, it was true, preloved and all that, but he didn't really think they had the rarity he was going for. Specifically, he found nothing on Occlumency or Legilimency at all.

When a thought occurred to him, Harry sighed.

It took a moment of organising, the hooded cloak drawn closed and fixed solidly around his shoulders, hood again pulled it low over his face and his trunk properly disillusioned, but then he wearily turned and trudged down the cobbled street.

He paused a few doors up, drew his wand out from his pouch and secreted it up his sleeve. He tugged his hood forward, secured it with a temporary sticking charm, then double-checked that the trunk was invisible and made sure that he did not look worth robbing.

Then Harry walked confidently but stealthily into Knockturn Alley.

The Alley was bright – it was midday, after all – but a number of street peddlers leered at him and cold prickles rose on his skin. Harry started slightly, he had forgotten, after his success with the Diagon Alley shops, just how small he now appeared.

He paused a little, his steps faltering, and then raised his chin and stepped straight into the narrow street.

Harry's skin crawled at the state of some of the people pattering up and down the badly paved road. He yearned to give them a wide berth, but bluffed it out. The knuckles on the hand with which he was holding his wand went white with the pressure.

He did not try to meet anyone's eyes, but was extremely sensitive to the whereabouts of the other pedestrians.

A sudden patter of feet came from behind him.

Harry spun.

A small scuffle occurred, as Harry tore his wand from out from within his sleeve. The hot and rancid breath of the street thug burned a little too hot and close to his face for comfort. Harry ducked, and his wand flashed brightly. Someone grunted. Then, with a slowness that made Harry realise just how close a call he had just had, the body of the larger man slowly crumpled to the ground. Harry's wand darted out and he mumbled an _incarcerous_ spell over the body, just to be sure. Finally, Harry stepped back from the body of his assailant, puffing slightly. The prone body was collapsed and unconscious at his feet. There was a clatter as a knife fell to the ground. Harry grimaced. Then, his wand still held aloft, Harry glanced around the rest of the Alley. There were no more attackers. He backed up warily for a few paces, then dropped his wand-arm slowly and turned to leave. The comatose body of the left the prone man behind him on the street.

The many watchful eyes suddenly retreated, and the hidden onlookers decided to leave him alone after that.

Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief when he stepped firmly into Borgin and Burkes. The surly storekeep grunted as Harry stepped through the door, and the man remained behind his counter.

Harry browsed rapidly through the shop, collecting a number of promising-looking books and scrolls. Nothing on Occlumency, to his eternal dismay, but perhaps there were hints within the texts. Harry found himself optimistic due to lack of any other option. In the meantime, his careful searching revealed a certain Vanishing Cabinet standing in a dark corner. It caught Harry's attention immediately.

He dumped the books in front of the storekeep.

"These. And throw in the cabinet in the back corner as well," he rasped out. Harry hoped desperately that his youthful voice would not ruin his luck.

"Huh," the man – Mr Borgin – croaked. "Ten galleons for this lot. The cabinet will be twenty more."

Harry pursed his lips. "That cabinet has been sitting here unwanted for years," he countered. "Look at the dust, it's never been touched. Ten for the books, and ten again for the cabinet."

"Hah," Mr Borgin responded, "They save lives, they do. It's worth more'n that."

Harry spat out, "But it's broken, ain't it? You've lost its pair. Fifteen maximum, with no further questions asked." He found himself imitating the man's speech patterns, and hoped he didn't cause offense.

There was a pause, Harry's worry increased, and then the man spat on his hand, and stuck it towards Harry.

"Done."

Harry gazed at the sticky hand a moment too long, and he saw the man's eyes peer curiously towards the underneath of Harry's hood. He shook himself out of his stupor. Then, Harry cautiously spat on his own hand, and reached out for a quick handshake.

He then carefully counted out a pile of twenty-five galleons, which Borgin recounted suspiciously. As the shopkeep scuttled over to the Vanishing Cabinet, Harry fussed over his trunk, dumped the books in the second compartment with the rest, and cast a silent _scourgify_ on his wand-hand. It took more coordination than he had expected, pointing his wand carefully with his left hand, but who could say where the other man's hand had been?

The two together then manoeuvred the old cabinet inside Harry's trunk's third compartment, and Harry left the dirty street behind him with relief.

A quick stop at Wiseacre's to discuss his Pensieve and collect a few other interesting curios held Harry up for another half hour. His feet ached. If he didn't need the Pensieve so badly…but that was a moot point.

The shopkeeper had good news from his French contact, and had clearly organised the various options that Harry must choose from. How large should it be? Harry wondered. How many memories could a small one hold, and what advantage did a large Pensieve hold aside from capacity? How would it get safely to London? And how long would it take to be made?

The shopkeeper patiently answered all his questions. A medium-sized Pensieve still looked large in Harry's eyes, it could hold practically limitless memories, but was less impressive than the bulkier options. There was some complicated arithmancy that changed the necessary runework depending on the size and depth of the bowl, so really big and really small options both worked out to be expensive. Harry was happy to choose the medium-cost, medium-size option. It would be brought to England by International Floo transport, the courier costs would be included in the price. Then, Harry was told to be pleased that his request had interested the master enchanter, who was happy to sneak the work higher into his waitlist than would usually be the case. Harry's Pensieve would be delivered in 18 months.

"What?"

"I know!" the shopkeep nodded enthusiastically, "I was surprised too. Anything less 'n three years is particularly good from this workshop. And it's being crafted by the master enchanter 'imself! This has turned into a very providential purchase for you, good sir. You couldn't get anything better for your galleons if you tried!"

Harry couldn't stop himself from frowning.

"Would it be possible to get it sooner if I paid extra? Or maybe if I was willing to have it made by someone else in the workshop?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "Now why would you want to do a thing like that?" He continued, cutting off Harry's reply before he could open his mouth. "But nevermind, I already said this is very providential for you. Pensieves are a masterwork, you know. Apprentices and journeymen don't have a hope at creating something as delicate as this. And as I said, most masters have a waiting list of over three years! You're right lucky this project caught the master's eye. Enchanting," he leaned over the counter to gaze intently into Harry's eyes, "Enchanting is a rare and much sought-after skill, you see."

"Oh," Harry barely realised he had murmured the sound.

The man leaned back up, and went on. "In my line of work, I am proud to say I 'ave had dealings with an enchanter or two in the past. British, o' course, afore this, but never a master before, I can tell you honestly. Money is no object for folks like them. Anyone who's anyone wants to rub elbows with them. Ain't you the lucky one for catching his interest, ay?"

"Of course," murmured Harry disconsolately. "Lucky indeed."

The shopkeeper started tidying up the counter they had been leaning over.

"Well, I'll send your order off straight away, young sir. With what you already paid me, I only need another hundred galleons for now, and the remainder you can pay when you come to pick it up."

Harry nodded a bit blankly, his mind still trying to fit this new information into his plans. So much for being ready for whatever was going to come his way. His luck strikes again. His fingers began stacking more piles of galleons on the benchtop before his brain caught up with them.

"So, you'll owl me when the Pensieve comes through, then?"

"Of course," the man confirmed. "All I need is your name, and I'll make a note of it now.

Harry grimaced. "That might be a problem. Due to certain circumstances not under my control," – like living in a cupboard for a few months every year – "I will probably be unavailable to receive owls directly." He didn't need to explain to this stranger about how he otherwise lived in a cupboard under the stairs, but Hogwarts should be alright. "I will have a contract at the Owl Post Office, so you can contact me indirectly through them."

"Very good, sir," the man nodded. "And your name?"

Harry grimaced again. "Mr Potter should do."

The shopkeep looked up sharply. "Any relation to, y'know…?"

He forced an apologetic grin. "Harry Potter? Nope, nothing to do with me, sorry. Although I get asked that a lot. I never heard he had any relatives left."

"Ah, well. True that. But it was worth a try." The older man finished scribbling the note, and the two of them sorted out the last of the details. "I'll be seeing you in the new year then, Mr Potter."

Feeling more than a little lost, Harry left the shop. He pulled himself together as he walked, finally feeling normal again as he reached the Diagon Alley Apparition point. Then, Harry carefully collected his luggage, picked it up firmly in his left hand, and Apparated directly back into his cupboard.

Harry spent the next few hours inside his trunk, happily organising his new purchases.

He was pleased to arrange his new library in the second compartment, where his large, stone Pensieve would eventually take pride of place in the centre of the space. A new desk and chair from Wiseacre's were set up along one wall, and a bookshelf half full with his new purchases stood against another. Having arranged his things to his liking, Harry was absurdly pleased with his study.

His clothes he placed neatly in the first compartment, having also bought some shelves for his items to rest on. After some consideration, he left the Vanishing Cabinet alone in the third compartment. He would have to remember to watch out for that older student that got stuck between cabinets in a later year – his Pensieve would have to help remind him when, it probably wasn't urgent – and cast a number of defensive spells around it for now.

He would have to sort that out as soon as he could, come to think of it. Killing off a poor student because he was stuck travelling between Vanishing Cabinets would be a horrible thing do have done because he was relying on his 'luck'. Harry scribbled himself a note, and stuck it onto the desk.

In the meantime, it was important that no-one could use it to access his stuff.

He finally stepped out of the luggage, and emerged back into the cramped quarters of his familiar cupboard.

The trunk's undetectable extension charm meant that each compartment was larger than his own cupboard. Harry stood hunched beneath the low ceiling, in front of his luggage, surveying the space with a critical eye. Then, with a few more waves of his wand and the twist of a key, the cupboard's entire contents – all the knickknacks, and collectables, old memories and hidden treasures, rose from their places and proceeded to enter the first compartment. All the remained was his lumpy old mattress, sitting on the floor.

Following into the compartment himself, Harry set about creating a comfortable bedroom inside. His new bed, another purchase from Wiseacres, already took pride of place in the centre of the room. Now he set about filling the shelves with his little treasures. Dudley's old toys, the little soldiers, the toy robot with one arm, were placed carefully on one shelf, arranged neatly and tidily. The few books he had scrounged and hidden through his childhood were stacked neatly on the next. A picture he had once done at school and smuggled home was stuck up to his wall. When he had finished, he realised that there was a lot of space for new things.

His new living quarters set up, Harry opened his new books and set about his study. At the very least he wanted a few permanent wards on the cupboard to keep his privacy. In a book from Borgin and Burke's he spied a charm against under-age magic tracing, but was unsure how successful it might ultimately be. It was a long day, an expensive day, and Harry found himself dozing as he lay with his face on his desk.

He'd done a lot today. It was time for a break.


	6. Negotiations

The weeks passed with delightful ease. Harry remained inside his cupboard – or more specifically, the magically enhanced trunk inside his cupboard – for the majority of his days, emerging to do his chores and interact with the Dursleys only for meals.

He started small, studying his books for only an hour or so every day just before bed. It was harder than he thought, staying focussed at this age. And even that fact easily frustrated him.

Hermione, he could not help but think, would be disappointed with him, if she had come back in time and saw how he struggled to study. His actual life was on the line, plus the lives of hundreds of others, and yet he would rather work on the spellwork he already knew.

His desk seemed strange, at first. The height he could not complain about, the very gentle angle that tilted the surface towards him he got used to quickly, but the light of the compartment made him drowsy. The air, he decided, as he sat at his desk with his head in his hands, was too quiet and still, and he had so much to do that his mind just wouldn't settle.

He recalled to his mind the heart-stopping moment Sirius had fallen through the veil. He could study harder to prevent that happen again.

Harry scraped his hands through his hair in frustration, and reapplied himself to the Potions textbook he had in front of him.

As the days passed, Harry worked out a system. Wake early, do his chores while the Dursleys were otherwise occupied. Settle down in his cupboard for a solid three hours of spell work. Pop out for lunch, and wander outside a little so that the neighbours would see him, and then another three hours of studying his books. He would increase that, as soon as he felt he had got the hang of the concentration thing.

He honestly tried. His eyes ran over the words rapidly, but before he knew it, he had to stop reading, go back three pages, and read the same text again. Slowly.

Actually, Harry found, reading them out loud was best, as that way he could actually guarantee he was processing what he read.

He took extensive notes too. That was something he had come up with on his own. Hermione – when he was not quite sure what to do, he had decided to copy her attitude – Hermione would not have needed to take notes. She had a fabulous memory for information. Even Ron had a pretty good memory when he tried. But Harry wanted to learn the contents of his library without their advantages, and so catching the thoughts, his understanding, when he grasped it and pinning them down on parchment so they could not wriggle away was his coping mechanism of choice.

His notes started off spread out over all sorts of loose pieces of parchment, but he realised quite quickly that he should organise those too.

He had worked out a system so that all of his notes were organised by subject matter first – all the Charms stuff was together, then Potions, then Transfiguration and so on – and within those subjects the parchment notes were collected chronologically by book.

He had even used different ink and worked out a colour-coordinated code, inspired by Hermione, of course, so that he could see all the practical spells in green ink written in the margins, the various applications of spells written in purple, cross-curricular notes were deep crimson, and they all stood out clearly from the normal, boring black theory which otherwise dominated his pages.

All the ink wells and half-read books sitting on his desk made him feel like a Ravenclaw.

The good news was that his handwriting was slowly improving. His professors would doubtless be pleased.

When his planning and studying and mediating became too much, Harry gave his concentration a rest by visiting Diagon Alley in his new, anonymous robes. He unashamedly delighted in the meals he purchased for himself during his day trips.

He saw, with a thrill of success, how his magic grew slowly stronger with his improved diet, clear goals, mental focus and good mood.

The development of his plans improved again as his health increased.

One Saturday morning, Harry woke in a distracted mood. He ate, he did his chores, he studied, he interrupted himself to wander outside and voluntarily scrub the outside of the house mildew and dirt free.

It took hours, but eventually he beat back his strange mood and Aunt Petunia's home exterior was as fresh and sparkling as if the brick had been water-blasted clean. The neighbours at number 6 would be jealous at the flawless finish.

Harry, having completed the job to his satisfaction, returned to his cupboard to study, but gave up shortly thereafter when the odd feeling returned full blown as soon as he picked up his quill.

He snorted in disgust. Somehow, the focus he needed just was not coming.

For a few minutes he returned outside and pottered around the garden, this time using his hands to pluck weeds and tidy the gardens.

The task was practically over before it began. Apparently his gardening of yesterday had been sufficient, and the attempt at physical exercise could not settle Harry down.

Finally, he stood in the back garden, dusting his hands. With a sigh, he gazed wearily at the morning sun, pulled his wand out of the mokeskin pouch he wore constantly around his neck, and muttered something under his breath.

With a barely heard, "Bloody hell," Harry suddenly disappeared from sight.

He arrived immediately in a derelict graveyard just outside a small village called Little Hangleton.

He stumbled upon arriving, tottering precariously into a pretentious marble mausoleum, before settling himself down and taking his bearings.

Harry gazed around him with barely a shiver. His bleak memories of the place notwithstanding, the graveyard was far less intimidating in the daylight.

A small spattering of light grey clouds chased across the sky, and so the graveyard was well-lit and lively. The obnoxious sound of small birds resounded through the overgrown cemetery, and a fresh, damp wind danced between the headstones spiritedly.

Having oriented himself to the larger area, Harry spied the distant Riddle manor in the distance, and promptly began a series of short-distance Apparitions that led him to the outskirts of the village proper.

Once there, it was a quick task to get directions to the locally infamous Gaunt shack, and Harry found himself outside the house in question without half an hour passing.

Harry looked thoughtfully at the abandoned building before him. The building was even older and more derelict than he remembered it, in his surprisingly clear memory of what he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve. The walls of the old house were no longer 'mossy', but rather seemed more moss than wall. The nettle bushes growing under the windows seemed larger and more vicious than he remembered. One of the huge old trees had fallen onto its neighbouring tree, and while this should have let a little more light land on the place, instead it reminded Harry more strongly of death and decay.

The place was creepy.

Somewhere inside lay a historically significant ring, bearing all of a deadly curse, a tormented soul-fragment and the one and only Resurrection Stone.

He focussed intellectually on the problem before him, to the exclusion of his rapid breathing and quick heartbeat.

Here was a chance to improve the timeline: retrieve the ring, save Dumbledore's life. And Snape's tortured promise, Harry supposed absently, as well.

The challenge before him was still overwhelming, however. Despite his return in time, improved knowledge and fevered study, Harry had no idea of how to approach the task before him. He simply had no notion of what kind of protections Tom Riddle might have placed around the Horcrux.

He had been intending to leave this problem until his knowledge of magic was improved, but apparently the matter would continue weighing on him until it was resolved.

Harry's greatest priority at the moment was his frantic studying, and for all his intentions and attempts to push the emotions away, it seemed he would not be able to focus until the current distraction was eliminated.

He stalked carefully around the perimeter of the property, developing and discarding a number of unlikely plans. The hours passed.

The sun was well past its zenith, and Harry's clinical concentration had faded into a heavy cloud of frustration when he finally gave up for the day, and Apparated back into his cupboard.

The next day he was back. He had noted down extensively what he remembered of the place, and it turned out that Dumbledore had not told him much. Having flipped through a range of hastily acquired new books, done some amateur research, and finally slept on the problem, Harry could only come back and try again. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the burden had continued to weigh him down, and so when Harry arrived once more in front of the Gaunt shack, he was already in a simmering bad mood. A steady grey drizzle and the steel-coloured clouds that stretched from horizon to horizon did not help his temper. He returned each morning for the next three days.

On Wednesday, he plonked himself down under a nearby tree, crossed-legged on the ground, just on the right side of the property's boundary wards. He hastily erected a large, blue umbrella that he anchored to the ground with a well-placed sticking charm. With a deep sigh, Harry did his best to consider the problem emotionlessly. The ring was cursed to touch, but the Stone setting was not. Voldemort's other Horcruxes – the Diadem excepted – were protected with multiple deadly traps and curses. It had killed Dumbledore, but through compulsion magic or bad luck and judgement Harry did not know. He lacked data.

Harry felt the impatience burn in his mind, but with determination born from his memories of Dumbledore's death, he refocussed his mind on the problem again and again. Repeatedly, he pushed the frustration and distractions away.

What advantages did he have over Dumbledore? Well…he'd been on more Horcrux hunts, Harry finally supposed. And what did he know about Voldemort's protections?

What was it Hermione had once said about…Kreacher?

"Voldemort would have considered the ways of house-elves far beneath his notice… _something something_ …it would never have occurred to him that they might have magic that he didn't." Finally, the thought occurred to him that Voldemort's protections were heavy, and deadly _for adult wizards or witches_. The cave had been a good example. The elves knew about the Room of Requirement too. Surely, only Dumbledore could have possibly taken the ring's defences head on and succeeded. Of course, Harry was not going to risk an elf on this. He was no Hermione, but Harry was sure there must be a way he could make this knowledge work for him.

Eventually Harry's mind presented him with a potential solution a little better than the others.

He considered it cynically, but finally accepted its feasibility and waved his wand in the air.

" _Serpensortia_ ," he whispered, and watched as a medium-sized black snake erupted from the tip of his wand.

Harry and the snake watched each other warily for a moment, before Harry once more opened his mouth.

"Hi. Hello," he tried, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Testing, testing. Can you hear me? _"_

The snake drew itself up, and stared at him with its reptilian eyes.

"Uh…" continued Harry, taking that as agreement, "I was hoping you could do me a favour."

The creature remained before him, holding his gaze with an unblinking stare. A pause.

" _What?_ " it hissed. " _My time isss precious."_

Harry directed the creature to enter the underneath of the shack, and search directly for a ring of power, hidden somewhere within the house behind magical protections.

" _That ssseems dull_ ," the snake replied. " _I'd rather not_."

Harry panicked, and hit it with a Confundus Charm.

The creature reared up before him, then wove silently in the air, gazing at him with patient eyes.

He repeated his instructions, but the snake just waited before him. Harry fumbled for a moment, and finally pulled out of his mokeskin pouch his Gringotts bag full of coins. He emptied its generous contents on the wet grass, and then duplicated the empty bag, handing the copy over to the snake before him.

"Find a way into the house, and then look for a box." Harry ordered. "Put the box inside the bag, and then return it all to me."

He watched in satisfaction as the snake grasped the bag within its mouth and slithered off towards the shack. He wanted to say that he had faith in his new-found servant, but the flimsiness of his plan had suddenly punctured his confidence.

He stood quietly while the snake slithered away, the nervous anxiety forcefully expelled from his mind. He hoped the charm would last – he'd never tried it on snakes before. He wondered idly how Voldemort made them obey him. The Imperius, probably. But he wasn't desperate enough to go there yet. There was something he dimly remembered the fake Moody saying, something about the Unforgivables... But he couldn't quite put his finger on it, and decided to come back to it later.

He watched as the snake arrived at the building, reached the front door…and died.

It took Harry a moment of horrified frustration before he realised that of course the front door was cursed, before he conjured up a second snake. Impatiently recasting a _confundus_ , Harry gave it more flexible instructions and then watched it slither up to the body of its predecessor and collect the bag, before it turned back from the front door.

He eyed it curiously as it peered up at the front two windows, then slowly but surely began working its way up to the roof, where missing tiles had left gaping holes in the building's defences.

Finally, the snake reached the roof, and disappeared into the room below.

While he waited, Harry kept himself busy by putting his coinage back inside the original Gringotts bag, and stuffing it back into his pouch.

The task took him longer than he expected: the pile of money looking so innocuous on the ground could not just be poured straight back into the pouch with his hands.

Harry wasted many minutes trying to levitate the gold up off the ground. It was hugely frustrating that his spells were all apparently failing him. Finally, Harry recalled Hermione mention something about a goblin uprising caused by the _accio_ charm, and reasoned that the coins had since been created unspellable. He spent the best part of the next hour manually stuff the coins through the narrow neck.

Harry then spent a few minutes chasing down stray coins before sitting back in satisfaction.

Despite having kept himself occupied for so long, his wait continued, and Harry's faith in the snake waned still further. He sent out a third snake to search for information or perhaps offer help, and then a fourth as more time passed.

A full five hours passed before Harry was willing to accept that his plan had failed.

Perhaps there were wards inside the hut that Banished conjured objects? Trapped them? Perhaps the snakes had all died? He could not even be certain that his conjured snakes would last that long naturally. He had thought a few hours would be more than enough, and had not even tried to increase the strength of his spell.

It would be too convenient for a horcrux to be easy to retrieve, he supposed.

Which was a logical thought, but not really a comforting one. He was still at the beginning of his plan, and it felt suspiciously like an omen of failures to come.

Harry shook his head forcefully to get rid of the thought.

He wasn't thrilled that his plan had failed, but he was sure there was an idea there somewhere. It would come to him, all he needed was time.

Plus, a little more study would not hurt.

He returned home to work on his Transfiguration. And perhaps there was some kind of Charm that could imitate Mad-Eye's eye, and help him see through the walls to what was happening.

Quickly, the beginning of September approached. Despite having considered the problem many times, Harry could only see trouble coming in his necessary conversation with his Aunt or Uncle.

He approached his Aunt Petunia by the front door late one Monday morning.

"Aunt Petunia," he tried.

The woman scowled up from her obsessive dusting.

"What?" She sniffed. He had been practically invisible this past month, and Harry could read on her face that she thought her good luck was about to end.

"I received a letter just now," Harry conveniently fudged the truth, "and it looks like something that will work out for both of us."

Harry watched as Petunia scowled closely at his hands. He was indeed carrying a letter, forged specifically for this purpose. Petunia would have no idea how he got his hands on it. His Aunt reluctantly lowered her duster.

"What? Give it here. How did you get that?"

Harry held the letter forward just in time for it to get snatched by his suspicious aunt. He watched bated breath as Petunia scanned through it.

"It seems that my Mum and Dad...um," he faltered, as Petunia twitched in irritation. Harry suppressed a sigh: this acting like a nervous eleven-year-old was getting slightly old. "Uh...I was preregistered at their old school when I was little. It's a boarding school, so I'll be away the whole year, except for about a month at the end of each school year. I thought you'd be pleased."

He could see that the prospect of her little troublemaker moving out appealed to Petunia greatly. But still, the thought warred with her belief that the child needed strict watching over, and lots of discipline in order to work all his freakishness away. He could see in her face that she thought it was a shame, but…

Harry continued. "The school fees are all covered, and totally non-refundable. I was thinking that you would be able to get a refund from Stonewall High if you ask before school starts?"

Petunia twitched again as the idea of free money registered in her brain. He had known it had grated on her that the Dursleys always had to spend their own, hard-earned money on their unwanted nephew. It was practically a crime to them, how money that should have been supporting their darling Dudders was being wasted on the freak. She carefully removed the rubber gloves from her hands, and placed them on the side of her bucket of water.

"Let me think."

Harry sweetened the deal.

"I know I won't fit in there, I don't have any stuff like the other kids will…" he licked his lips. Indeed, the other student's supplies were on a totally different scale to his own expensive, recently purchased materials. "But they said they would meet me at King's Cross Station and take me straight there. I think you'd have to meet up with them and explain why I can't go personally, if you would rather I stay with you."

Petunia was silent. Her skinny neck wobbled as she narrowed her eyes.

Harry was sure he was one final push away.

Then Petunia spoke. "Your parent's school. It will be full of... _people_ \- "

Harry cut her off. "I'm sure my parent's old friends would be pleased to see me there," he blurted. "I don't know them, of course, but they would know me. It would be great to be able to tell them how much I'm looking forward to going. They might want to visit me here, if I stay…"

Harry hoped desperately that Petunia focussed on the right facts. Surely, if Harry staying here would attract trouble, and attention, and weird, freaky friends that might threaten her dearest Dudders, Petunia would make him leave.

A long pause, filled only by the sound of Dudley's television in the next room.

Finally, Petunia sniffed. "Alright. I'll tell Vernon that you have managed to find a distant school, for free. Don't talk to him about it, and don't mention the m-word to anyone. Is that clear?"

Harry nodded his head. She continued, "Don't make a fuss, and be sure to tell all your new friends not to visit you at our place. When you do leave?"

Harry was thrilled. Sooner or later Petunia would realise that beating the magic out of him would be impossible with this, but hopefully he would be out of the house by then.

"The train I need leaves on September the first, but maybe I could tell the teachers to pick me up before then?" He suggested. The idea seemed agreeable to his aunt, and Harry gratefully left the room before anything could change her mind.

Harry endured a long night of study, and an even longer breakfast during which he was grilled by his Aunt. She had discussed the issue with her husband in bed the night before, and he had raised a few points.

"You say your fees have been paid," Petunia queried.

"Yes."

"And you can't get the money back."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

"But Dudley could get the Stonewall fees to use instead."

"If you say so, Aunt Petunia."

The woman leaned forward, tensely. "And they can't change their minds?"

"No, Aunt Petunia."

The scrawny woman checked to see that her husband had left the house for work. Dudley was once again watching television in the next room. She lowered her voice.

"I know what you'll learn at that school," she spat, "You won't be bringing any of that dirty stuff back here, will you?" Her words were venomous, but Harry wondered if he could hear her voice shaking. He looked at her curiously.

"I know what that school is like," she hissed. "You may go, and good riddance to you, but I won't have you do any of that stuff here when you come back," she paused. "You do have to come back, don't you?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I do." He cocked his head to one side, thinking. This was one of the most equal conversations he had ever had with his aunt, in either timeline. Things were changing already. "If things work out, I'll organise everything so that I only have to come back for four more years, maximum. Let me go, and then I'll be out of your hair."

All the time he had spent planning his timeline came in useful. Four years. He had planned to face Voldemort before the wizard had a chance to rise to power again. It would be tough, Harry thought, but possible.

Petunia looked tempted by the offer Harry lay before her. One month each year of Harry, for only four more years.

Harry, with maturity beyond his eleven physical years, met her eyes. "We'll make an agreement, you and I. I won't use magic in front of you, I won't bother Dudley, and I'll keep the agreement from Uncle Vernon, if you let me go. In fact, I can make it so they barely see me. And as soon as I can, I will cut ties with you all for good. In exchange, you let me go to school."

His aunt suddenly looked suspicious. Harry's offer seemed too good to be true, but despite her best efforts, nothing obviously wrong came to her mind. She clarified, "You'll keep what you learn a secret from Vernon and Dudley? You won't tell them about the school? You'll really leave in four years?"

Harry nodded. His aunt stared at his for a moment longer, and then suddenly made up her mind. "Done. Never mention this conversation again. Clean the dishes, and get back to your cupboard."

She left the room quickly.

Harry puttered around the kitchen in baffled silence. That was surprisingly easy. He weighed the agreement in his mind. It put pressure on him to complete his plot against Voldemort in a timely manner, but then that had always been his safest solution. Considering all that was out of Harry's control, perhaps this promise with Aunt Petunia was as good as he was going to get.

Friday soon came, and Harry waited until his Uncle had left for work, before carrying his luggage out into the kitchen. Aunt Petunia was scandalised, but Harry cut her off.

"I'll leave now, Aunt Petunia. I've called a taxi, and I'll stay in London over the weekend so I won't bother you all."

She opened and then closed her mouth. Harry continued.

"I'll leave now, so nothing can go wrong. You won't have to hear from me again until the end of June."

Petunia weighed his comments up in her mind, and then reluctantly nodded. They shared the kitchen in silence, Petunia clearing up Dudley's plates leftover from breakfast, Harry quietly doing the dishes, until Harry glanced at the clock, picked up his luggage and opened the front door.

"I'm off then," he said. "See you next June." Harry walked out the door.

"Boy," Petunia called to his back, and stopped in the hallway and turned around. "My sister – " Petunia's face twisted, " – met a lot of dangerous people at that school. Weirdos. Freaks. Madmen. I won't have you bringing any of them here, I tell you."

"I don't – " Harry began. Petunia's face darkened immediately.

"No mumbo-jumbo, tea-cups into rodents, creating fire, mixing your poisons in this house. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

She stood in the kitchen doorway and stared at Harry, her face a mix of emotion.

"Dudley has been told you are going to reform school. Vernon has given his permission for you to leave, but does not want to see any evidence of freakishness ever again."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

"We _do not want to know_. Will that be a problem?"

"No, Aunt Petunia." Harry met her eyes sombrely. "I'll do my best to stay away from you when I can."

"See to it," his Aunt demanded, and closed her mouth with a snap. Harry looked at the woman in silence for a moment longer, eventually deciding she had said all that she wanted to. He turned around.

He heard Petunia follow him to the front door, and then she stood there, watching him load his full-sized luggage next to him in the back seat of a taxi.

She stayed at the door, as the taxi engine started, and the car drove away. Neither Harry nor Petunia waved goodbye. Harry did not turn around as the car moved off.


	7. Unfamiliar Friends

Harry spent his last two days before school living in an upstairs room over the Leaky Cauldron. It was a shame he had not managed more magic before he had left the Dursley's, but even in his previous timeline Harry had never learned much about wards.

He wandered the streets in a tidy set of robes, browsing both wizarding and muggle shops for a number final purchases that might make a difference to his plan.

He read and studied as intensely as he could, finding that his concentration and memory were slowly improving with practice. It was hard, especially now he was so close to the noise and distraction of the Alley, but he brutally forced himself to remember his last, long walk past the Hogwarts defenders, and could guilt himself back to his studies.

And when he needed to relax, Harry visited Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, from where he saw a number of Hogwarts' students wandering around the Alley.

Harry's heart was filled with anticipation and nostalgia, as the day of the Hogwarts Express grew closer.

There was only one thing bothering him now. The ring Horcrux, still somewhere in the Gaunt place. Harry would need to go back and retrieve it once he had a plan that worked.

His Transfiguration was coming on nicely, he was up to reviewing the coursework from Fourth Year. More specifically, he had flipped through the books enough to remember the spells they covered, even if he didn't really bother with the theory. The seeing spells, however, that he hoped would be related to Moody's eye, he was having trouble with. It turns out that they either didn't exist, or were heavily restricted.

It rather made sense, Harry supposed. Something like x-ray vision could be used for a lot of bad things.

But either way, he would need to use the spells out of Hogwarts, and the Trace would be on him then.

This time, even if she was here, Hermione may not have been much help. She was still a great believer in rules. Instead, this seemed more like a problem for Sirius, or the Marauders. Or the Weasley twins, Harry thought, his mind turning closer to home. What might they do, if Mrs Weasley would let them get away with it?

The thought was still on his mind when he went to sleep.

Harry woke on the morning of the first, having slept surprisingly well. Perhaps, he thought with a hollow kind of optimism, he had successfully planned for every eventuality, and there was simply nothing left to keep him awake at night.

Because in the cool light of the early morning, it certainly felt like he had cleared all the obstacles in his path. His mind had been working while he was sleeping, and he had woken up with a solution to his problem, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

He ate a large breakfast provided by Tom, who had been inducted quietly into the knowledge of Harry's real identity. The bartender had been good about keeping it a secret from his patrons, and Harry left him a substantial tip as he cleaned his room our in preparation for leaving.

Harry doubled and tripled checked his Hogwarts list; his Hogwarts Express ticket, his wand and his money were all safely stored inside his pouch, that itself lay hidden underneath Harry's new shirt. His luggage was packed, and, with a nostalgic pang when he remembered his lack of Hedwig's cage, Harry prepared to make his way out into the day.

"Oh, you need a bit of help there, dear," the talking mirror told him sympathetically, as he checked himself for muggle appropriateness in the glass.

"Yeah, thanks," Harry muttered, his eternal battle with his hair not really foremost in his mind.

He turned to check the room, picked up the trunk, and began clambering down the narrow stairwell.

The words were ringing in his eyes, and Harry tried to brush them away. He was going to Hogwarts today! What was one small thing like tidy hair going to do to his future?

His own phrasing in his mind halted him awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs. One small letter had lost him Hedwig, and Hagrid's guidance, and the Dursley's worst fears all in one go. But what was it about his hair…?

The famous Potter hair, of course, and he sighed. It was a short, quick trip to Madam Primpernelle's just down the Alley, and he ducked in with a blush as the door tinkled behind him.

"One medium-sized bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Treatment, please," he mumbled to the matronly lady at the counter.

"Oh my, yes, I would say so!" She consoled him. "You really do need help, my dear. I'm so glad you came in."

"Yeah, thanks," he mumbled again to the floor.

"Why," the sales lady kept talking, "I can't even charge the full price, my dear. Here, you pay me the medium-size price, and I'll upsize you to the large one for free. It's not style, you poor thing, it's _survival_."

"Sure," murmured Harry again, and swapped a few coins for the bottle. He didn't look that bad! Her pitying gaze had embarrassed him, and it was with more than relief that he quickly escaped.

"Thank you, come again!" he heard, as he fled out the door.

It was a brief stop at the Owl Post Office, where he made his special request, to the disinterest gaze of the store clerk, and made his way back onto the Alley.

From there, it was a short walk from the shop to the Cauldron, and he merged in with the muggles with no problems.

Harry arrived at the station in comfortable time, and proceeded to the barrier between platforms nine and ten. There, he rearranged his features into an expression of concern, and watched carefully as a steady trickle of unusually dressed families wandered nearby and then strangely disappeared.

He was beginning to worry slightly in truth, when he finally saw the gaggle of red-heads arriving ten minutes before departure time.

Molly Weasley, the wonderful woman, was looking harassed and frazzled as she managed her four school-aged sons through the station. They stopped just before they passed him, and Harry was amused to hear the young voice of his future girlfriend from somewhere behind the boys.

"Mum, can't I go…?"

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first."

Percy Weasley, looking far younger than Harry remembered, marched his luggage straight towards the Platform barrier, and rapidly disappeared from sight.

"Fred, you next," Molly instructed. The twin raised their usual fuss, but also disappeared with speed into the barrier.

Harry hurriedly reached for his trunk, and approached them.

"Excuse me," Harry began, hoping that it wouldn't matter that he didn't exactly remember what he said the first time around.

"Hullo, dear," she said with a smile. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too."

She pointed at the final boy remaining, and Harry and Ron blinked at each other in acknowledgement. Ron was as tall as Harry remembered him being at their first meeting, but with the familiarity of years of friendship, Harry realised that the redhead was very nervous.

"Yes," said Harry, keeping to the script he could vaguely remember. "The thing is – the thing is, I don't know how to get – "

"How to get on to the platform?" she asked kindly, and Harry nodded. Mrs Weasley really was a thoughtful, doting mother. Of course, he was lying to her, dishonest again, but he felt pretty sure that this was an important part of the timeline he remembered.

"Not to worry," she said. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop, and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now, before Ron."

"Er – OK," said Harry, and promptly lined himself up towards the wall. He sped up a little, walking rapidly, but his seventeen-year-old pride would not quite let him repeat his panicked performance at a run again. Maintaining his pride was a little more important to him, now that Harry actually knew how to get through.

The familiar scarlet steam engine was hissing and steaming in front of him when he broke through, emerging on a platform that was packed with all of the families he had watched pass him by. Harry quickly moved out of the way of the wrought-iron archway behind him, and began to push his way through the crowd.

He paused, before silently passing Neville Longbottom and his strict-looking grandmother. Lee Jordan was raising a crowd – and a fuss – with his pet tarantula. Familiar looking faces were already hanging out of the windows of the train waving and shouting with their families on the platform.

Harry found himself the last empty compartment at the end of the train, and remembered to appear to struggle with his trunk just enough to draw the attention of Fred and George Weasley.

"Want a hand?" a voice asked, and Harry stared at him. Familiar looking features stared back, and Harry's brain was frantically processing the face. Was this Fred, or George? The fact that both twins currently had ears was confusing the issue. He realised he had not responded, and snapped out of his thoughts with a twang.

"Yes, please," Harry remembered to gasp out, and watched as the twins tucked his trunk away in the corner of the apartment.

He took the moment to reorganise his thoughts. Fred's future death loomed up in his mind, and Harry was used to the feelings of admiration and guilt that he associated with the twins. Yet, suddenly, he was confronted with them as thirteen-year-olds.

They looked so young and innocent – well, maybe not innocent. But inexperienced, and trusting. They had no reason to believe that in a few short years, their family would be shattered.

Harry gazed bemusedly at their cheeky grins and interested eyes, that were once more fixed firmly on him.

He came back to the moment with a start.

Harry felt rather self-conscious then, as he purposefully paused, and ruffled his fringe. It felt staged, or choreographed to him, but he hoped the twins would still be suitably impressed and go back to brag about it to Ron.

It seemed his plan worked.

"What's that?" said one of the twins suddenly, pointing to Harry's lightning scar.

"Blimey," said the other twin. "Are you…?"

"He _is_ ," said the first twin. "Aren't you?" he added to Harry.

"Oh, yes," Harry replied, and paused in embarrassment as the brothers stared at him in concert. At thirteen, it appeared that they were less subtle than he remembered them. Also, seeing them so honest was bemusing.

Then a voice camp floating in from outside. "Fred? George? Are you there?"

The tension seemed to snap. "Coming, Mum!" Shouted the twin on Harry's left, and the two jumped off the train to rejoin their family

Harry watched quietly out the window as Molly organised the family goodbye.

He looked on in amusement as Molly got out her handkerchief, and rubbed Ron's nose vigorously. His future friend turned a brilliant shade of red, and tried in vain to defend himself from her maternal attention.

Percy returned to the group, and opened himself up to the twins good-natured ribbing. Harry noticed the stiff set to his shoulders as they teased him, and Harry's mind flashed forward to the family's painful separation in his memories. Could he do something to change things? Should he?

Through the chaos, little Ginny looked excited and lonely all at once, and Harry's heart went out to her. It must be horrible to be the only one left behind, Harry thought in sympathy, but then she always had been in the family of boys. She perked up immediately as the twins related their introduction to the Great Harry Potter, and Harry winced at the proof that she was once more massively crushing on his celebrity reputation.

Harry continued waiting as the whistle sounded, and all the students left on the platform suddenly scrambled onto the train. The train started moving with a jerk and a squeal. The journey had begun. His heart was beating rather loudly as he waited for his future-best-friend to open the compartment door.

There was a sudden scrape of door, and a red-faced Ron came in and sat down.

"Oh, hi," Ron began. "Is anyone else sitting here? Do you mind if I join?"

Harry nodded his head.

"Oh, good. Everywhere else is crazy full." Ron made his way into the seat opposite Harry's, and sent a few awkward glances his way before turning his attention out of the window.

There were a few moments of relative silence before the door opened with a scrape and the twins popped their heads in the compartments.

"Hey, Ron." Their grinning faces filled up the doorway. "Did you hear that Lee Jordan has snuck a giant tarantula onto the train?"

"Right," Ron mumbled. Harry remembered how Ron felt about spiders.

"Harry," the other twin addressed him nicely. "Sorry we forgot to introduce ourselves before. Fred and George Weasley. And this is our brother, Ron."

"Hang on," the first twin interjected. "That's not it, it's George and Fred Weasley. Get it right."

"My mistake." They grinned. Harry smiled up at them.

"So which is which?"

Ron groaned quietly in his corner, but the twin's grins widened.

"Well," said the twin on the left, "It's easy. I'm Forge, and he's Gred."

"Nonsense," said the other twin. "He's Gred, and I'm Forge."

"That's what I said."

"No you didn't – " They began bickering.

"Harry." Harry interrupted. "Nice you meet you both."

"Right, we'll be off then. Don't be overwhelmed by anything, will you?" And they shut the door behind them and disappeared.

Ron roused himself from the corner in which he had been sitting quietly.

"Sorry about my brothers. They're always like that."

Harry smiled his way. "That's cool." They sat in awkward silence for a moment.

Harry found himself rubbing his damp palms on the knees of his trousers. This was his Ron! Or rather, this Ron had the potential to become his Ron. Another his Ron. He forced himself to lean back against the seat and wait.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron finally blurted out.

Harry nodded.

"Oh – well, I thought it might have been one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got – you know…"

He pointed at Harry's forehead.

Harry pulled back his fringe to show the lightning scar. Ron stared unabashed.

"So that's where You-Know-Who – ?"

"Yes," said Harry. "But I don't like to remember it."

"You remember?" gasped Ron, horrified. Harry bit his tongue, he had slipped up already.

"Not much," he rushed quickly. "I remember a lot of green light, and screaming, but not much else."

"Wow," said Ron. He stared fixedly at Harry for a few minutes. Harry shifted in his chair, and Ron realised what he was doing. He quickly looked out the window.

"So, uh…" Harry broke the silence, "you seem to have a really big family?"

Harry questioned Ron about the group on the station. He really did not know what they had spoken about in his last time line. Was there a lot of awkward silence? Had they been official 'best friends' by the end of the train ride? He wished – again – for the Pensieve. He couldn't remember the details that well, because it was the outcomes that stood out to him! They were going to be best friends eventually.

But there was something that he could do, now that he thought about it. Harry continued asking Ron all about the older brothers. Then, carefully and quietly, he continued asking more. If he slipped up and knew something about Ron's family that Ron didn't remember telling him, surely Ron would be suspicious. Mindful of the possibility that everything could become unpredictable, Harry nevertheless did his best to prepare for the years ahead.

The conversation shifted, until Ron pulled out his old family pet. Harry was on his feet before he thought, his hand halfway into his mokeskin pouch, and both boys froze with surprise at the speed with which Harry had moved.

Harry thought quickly.

"Sorry, got a bit of a shock there. I saw it was a rat, but didn't realise it was a _pet_ ," he explained. "I didn't…" He tried again, "I won't...I wouldn't hurt a pet," he said. Harry deflated somewhat. "Really sorry."

Rob blinked in surprise. "It's all good, mate," he added with a slow grin. "You surprised me, that's all. With that speed you could be a duelist, but you won't need it for Scabbers. He's useless, he hardly ever wakes up."

Harry's heartbeat slowed down, and he patted the pouch back under his shirt. He tried to rescue the conversation as he sat. "Where did you get him from then? Are rats commonly wizard pets?"

Ron blushed. "Not often, most people get owls, you might like one of those one day. But Scabbers used to be Percy's, he got an owl when he was made prefect, but we couldn't aff-, I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Ron's blush reached his ears, and he gazed determinedly outside the window.

Harry was quick to cheer him up.

"I didn't know about wizards," he began, and then realised that because the timeline had changed, he could not tell anyone about his meeting with Hagrid. Technically, the meeting had never happened. He continued on. "Until my letter for Hogwarts came, I didn't know about Hogwarts, or magic or about my parents and Voldemort –"

Ron gasped. Harry breathed a sigh of relief that they were back on familiar ground, and enjoyed the easy conversation they made as the train chugged through the countryside.

The journey continued as he expected it to, and finally the door opened and the Honeyduke's Express lady once again received a pile of coins from Harry in exchange for a load of wizarding sweets. Harry was pleased to order a pile of delicious treats, which he was quick to share with his new friend. He and Ron bonded over their food.

Harry was bemused that his first Chocolate Frog card was not Dumbledore, but rather Morgana instead.

Had he changed the timeline again? Was it the beginning of a ripple effect?

Ron was somewhat surprised when Harry immediately tore open all the packaging, crushing the Chocolate Frogs in his haste to reveal their cards. Morgana, Artemisia Lufkin, Paracelsus, Herpo the Foul, but no Dumbledore. Harry blinked at the cards in his lap in confusion. He had been right. There was no Dumbledore. He forced his breathing to slow, and waited for his heart-rate to calm down. Everything was alright, he had anticipated ripple effects, and chance events working out differently. And he already knew about the Stone. Chocolate Frog Cards were not important.

He shot a strained grin Ron's way, and settled back into his seat.

"So," Harry tried to recapture the right mood. "Chocolate Frogs, eh? You could have told me they jumped."

Ron looked at the smashed remains of the chocolatey treats that were now crushed across Harry's seat. A couple of frog legs still twitched in the pile, and the cards were scattered across Harry's seat and lap. Harry's face was flushed red and embarrassed looking.

Ron snorted. "Nah, it was more fun this way. You should have seen your face!"

Harry settled in to learn about Ron's Chocolate Frog collection. The conversation picked up.

Early afternoon faded into late afternoon, and then Neville Longbottom opened the door, asking the boys about his toad. Harry struggled with himself. He was so small and scared looking. The poor kid had had no friends right through their first year, and here Harry was with a chance to change that. He hesitated, torn between improving Neville's lot in life, and predicting the timeline that would save lives. Finally, it appeared that he had left it too late. Ron was already emphatically shaking his head.

Neville wailed, and Harry reassured the boy somewhat, with a quiet, "He'll turn up."

"I hope so," said Neville miserably, and left the compartment.

Ron was attempting to work the trick spell on Scabbers when young Hermione stuck her head in the door. Neville was following behind her.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said. Ron rebuffed her, and in exchange, she noticed the rat sleeping on his lap.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

Ron was put on the spot, but gamely mumbled away the rhyme. To Harry's complete lack of surprise, the rat remained absolutely unchanged. Hermione was less than impressed. Just as she opened her mouth to comment, Harry jumped into the conversation to avoid the confrontation that was otherwise sure to occur.

"Does the toad have a name?"

Hermione blinked, an irritated frown settling lightly on her face. She turned briskly to Neville. "What's your toad's name, Neville?" she asked officiously, clearly annoyed at herself for not knowing.

Neville ducked his head. "Trevor," he admitted meekly. "Does it matter?" Hermione repeated his answer to Harry.

"If you can use magic, can't you summon the toad then?" Harry asked. "I just thought if there was more than one toad on the train, you might summon the wrong one."  
Hermione pouted somewhat. "It's possible, of course," she said, looking upset, "But the spell isn't in any of my books. Gideon Flatworthy was famous for it, what with the creation of the Accionites, and the Goblin Uprising of 1743 stemmed directly from it, but it looks like it's not a spell taught to first years."

Out of concern for his future friends, Harry temporarily threw caution to the winds.

"I'll give it a go," he offered, halting the conversation while he withdrew his wand from the pouch around his neck. "I've read lots myself. Ron, could I borrow your wand?"

"Why can't you use your own?" Hermione interrupted.

Harry managed a wry grin. "Yeah, I was so excited about today and everything I'd need that I put it in a safe place and forgot it. I'm getting it owled to me tonight. Ron, do you mind?"

"I do–"

"Well, that was a bit silly," Hermione continued. "Here, take mine."

"It's fine," muttered Ron, a little frustrated. "He can have mine."

"Well," Hermione huffed, "mine's right here…"

"There you go, Harry," Ron declared loudly, staring at Hermione challengingly. He waved his wand too close to Harry's face.

"Ow! Thanks Ron," Harry muttered, as the wand smacked him in the cheek.  
 _Accio_ Trevor the toad!"

All four paused for a moment. Neville and Hermione, still in the doorway, had turned to gaze into the corridor, but after a pause, looked back at Harry. Hermione drew herself up to speak, but just then Neville squawked and had to duck, managing just in time to avoid the toad that whizzed up from the corridor behind him. The toad sailed magnificently straight into Harry's open hands. Trevor looked as grumpy as it was possible for a toad to look.

"Goodness," Hermione began, as Neville grabbed Trevor before it could escape again, "That was very good. Where did you find that spell? Was it the first time you've used it? How did you learn it? Did you practice at home? Do you have the book with you?"

"Well," said Harry. "Why don't you guys come in and sit down for a bit? Are you guys muggle-born too?"

Both his new friends clambered into the compartment and Harry drew the door closed behind them. Ron looked slightly put out, but responded politely enough to the questions, and the basic introductions were quickly put out of the way.

Hermione's introduction was rather long. Just as the boys thought she was finished, she asked, "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best. I hear Dumbledore himself was one, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad…"

"I'm going to be in Gryffindor," Ron volunteered. "Weasley's are always in Gryffindor. It's tradition."

"My Gran wants me to be Gryffindor too," Neville admitted glumly. "I reckon I'll probably be in Hufflepuff. It's where the spares go, people say."

"That's a horrible thing to say!" Hermione gasped. "Who said that? They can't be very nice people."

"Nah, they're probably right." Neville sank lower into his chair.

Ron nodded wisely. "My brothers said the same thing. Hufflepuff takes the people the other houses don't want. I'd hate to be in Hufflepuff, don't you think Harry?"

Harry watched in amusement and a little concern as three people he thought he knew spoke with all the solemnity of eleven-year-olds. Speaking of something they had no idea about, they nevertheless seemed to see the world in black or white. He threw in his two-cents.

"I always thought Hufflepuff was all about loyalty and kindness."

"Well, yeah," Ron sniggered. "But those're nothing special really. I mean, anyone can do that if they want to."

Neville gave a little moan, and Harry eyed him with worry.

Hermione shook her head. "Being in a house for the loyal and kind because you choose to be loyal and kind seems like a better reason than because its 'family tradition'."

Harry wanted to jump in, but he didn't get the chance.

Ron stiffened. "Yeah? What's wrong with family tradition? All my family are brave. Like Dumbledore, you know. It's in our blood."

"I don't think…" Hermione began, but Harry interrupted.

"I think we all have a pretty good chance of getting into Gryffindor," he began firmly." Because courage and bravery aren't the absence of fear, but rather, all about doing the right thing _anyway_."

Both Hermione and Ron nodded smugly, then scowled when they saw the other nod too. Neville managed to look a bit more hopeful though.

Ron muttered a little too loudly, "I don't know if I want to be in a house with _her_ for seven years. Little miss know-it-all –"

"Well, I might know a lot, but not everyone thinks that's a bad thing!" Hermione shot back. "Besides, you don't know if you're going to get in yet. Calling people names doesn't seem like a very Gryffindor thing to do, does it? How will your family feel about a Hufflepuff Ron then?"

"Of course I'm going to get into bloody Gryffindor!" Ron roared, half standing. Hermione shot up herself immediately in response. "I'm not the one too clever for her own good! You've probably got no hope at all, with all your Ravenclaw snobbery and your 'I've learnt all our set books off by heart!' I bet you'll hate feeling like a failure when Harry and I get Sorted in Gryffindor and you're not allowed in."

"Oh, I'm not the failure here –"

They all looked up at the door. Unnoticed by anyone, even Harry, footsteps had stopped by their compartment door, and now it had been slid open. Harry silenced a groan as he saw Draco Malfoy and his two sidekicks standing their arrogantly, surveying the frozen tableau in front of them.

There was a long awkward silence for a moment, before Malfoy took a deep breath. Harry's mind raced: unbelievably, he had forgotten about Malfoy's visit on the train, and had no idea how to deal with him.

Should he repeat his previous experience? Potentially satisfying, since he could squelch Malfoy easily with his extra life experience now, but definitely damaging in the long term.

Should he try to make friends? Not the most appealing of notions, although the boy might have inner potential. Somewhere.

He thought briefly of Malfoy's miserable face working as a Death Eater.

Malfoy, panicking in the Room of Requirement as he watched a friend die and tried to save the life of his other unconscious buddy.

Malfoy, sick with fear and uncertainty, under orders to kill Dumbledore but unable to dirty his hands.

Malfoy, reeling in horror at the Battle of Hogwarts as he finally saw the ultimate outcome of all his ideals and dreams, the death and destruction of Hogwarts and all it stood for.

True, he was a spoiled git, but Harry realised with a pang that he didn't hate the idiot anymore. Still, he had Ron, Hermione and Neville sitting _right next to him_. Something was bound to go wrong

"They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry, in counterfeit calm. After a split second of indecision, he stood up and extended his hand. "Draco Malfoy, I assume."

"You've heard of me, I see," the blond replied.

"Well," Harry lied, "More your family, really. I'm sure I'll learn more about you over the next few years."

"I'm sure you will," Malfoy let a small smile creep onto his face.

"And your two friends are…?" Harry let the question hang in the air.

"Allow me to introduce Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe. You're welcome to come back to sit with us, if you find this compartment a little…" his voice trailed off in distaste, "…vulgar."

Both Hermione and Ron puffed themselves up in fury, before realising exactly what they had been doing when the door was opened. Somehow they had been standing and shouting right into each other's faces. Slowly, they sat back in their chairs, simmering.

"Oh," said Harry, watching in concern as Ron then twitched violently." That's a very kind offer, but I think I'll stay here for now, thanks. We've just agreed we're all going to make it into Gryffindor, you see."

A perplexed look made its way onto Malfoy's young face. "I…see?" His gaze raked over the four Gryffindors again.

"Maybe we can catch up sometime?" Harry offered hesitantly. "I play seeker. Do you?"

Malfoy turned uncertain eyes back to Harry. "Seeker, you say? Perhaps there's hope for you yet. You'd be welcome in Slytherin, you know."

"Thanks again," Harry demurred. "But I'm happy with where I'm going."

Ron settled down with a sigh.

Malfoy looked sharply at Ron, and Harry blurted out the next thought that came to his mind before something started. "Do you know how long we've got until the train arrives?"

"Now that you mention it, the train is getting close. You probably want to put on your school robes and," he paused, looking at the mess of chocolate packets littering the seats and floor, "tidy up."

Harry stepped right over to the three of them, and stood very close to shake all their hands. "Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle. Thanks for your visit."

Malfoy didn't notice himself back away from Harry, but nodded politely in his direction as he was manipulated out of the doorway, where he had no other option but to turn and walk away

Harry stepped back inside and closed the door.

"He seemed…very young," Harry said, at exactly same moment that Ron blurted,  
"I've heard of his family! They're really Dark, Harry."

"Well," Harry allowed. "The Malfoys were Death Eaters, but this one's just eleven."

"My dad says Malfoy's father never needed any excuse to go to the Dark Side. I bet this one will turn out just the same. Apples don't fall far from the tree, you know."

Hermione almost allowed herself to be drawn back into their previous argument, except that Neville – bless his heart – reminded them all that they still needed to change into their uniforms.

Hermione leaped up with a squawk, and frantically instructed the boys to hurry and change.

"Let's stick together once we're Sorted!" Harry called as they tore off.

She and Neville hustled off to return to their own compartment, leaving Ron and Harry to change quickly behind them.

"We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately." The announcement came.

"Hey, Ron?" Harry started, having dug a small container out of his pocket, while Ron wrestled with his collar. "Do you know how I…" He trailed off, honestly embarrassed by what he was about to do.

"Huh? Ohhh," said Ron, as he saw the Sleekeazy's bottle in Harry's lap. "Yeah, Mum's always on about that stuff. She'd love to use it, if it wasn't for the mone– , ah…" his voice trailed off. "And the red-head thing, of course. Just shake the bottle into your hands for a couple of drops – twice should be fine for you, I reckon, and rub 'em together, then do this." He thrust his own hands back through his hair a couple of times, and Harry looked on doubtfully as Ron's short hair promptly stuck up.

He nodded in encouragement as Harry repeated his actions doubtfully – it took twelve drops, not two – then cocked his head thoughtfully.

"Wow, you look really different like that. All…" Harry watched Ron's expressive hands uncertainly. "All flowy, and wavy, and stuff. It's longer than I thought."

"Is it okay then? You think I look more like my mum than my dad?" It seemed his hair volume translated into length when it lay flat. He didn't think he would have a chance to conjure a mirror in private before the Great Hall.

"Not very girly," Ron assured him cheerfully, as he went back to tugging his collar. "Besides, girls tend to wear their hair long around here. More, glossy and sleek, I think you'd call it."

"Right," said Harry, carefully not thinking about why Ron felt the need to use the phrase ' _very_ girly'. It's not like he wasn't used to longer hair. It was like he was back in the Forest of Dean with Hermione, all over again. But _glossy_ , apparently. Still, it wasn't like it was a bad thing, to look like his mother at the Sorting.

"I guess I'm stuck with it, now."

He rearranged himself back in his seat and sat back, just as the train began grinding to a halt.


	8. Begging, Blackmail, and Belligerence

Harry and Ron crammed their pockets with the remaining sweets – not many remained, after Hermione and Neville had joined them – and made their way to where the huge silhouette of Hagrid was calling for all first-year students at one end of the tiny platform.

Slipping and stumbling, the small crowd of nervous eleven-year-olds followed the bobbing light of Hagrid's lamp down the steep, narrow path. Harry was tempted to peer into the trees to see if he could spot any centaurs watching the procession, but he remembered he was supposed to be new, and nervous. Besides, he was not currently as coordinated as he tended to think – something about being used to the body of a seventeen-year-old – and he had to struggle to keep up with the group as it was. And the group was indeed hurrying very quickly for a dark, windy night, and steep path.

Next to him, Ron tripped on something in the gloom, and Harry grabbed his elbow to steady him.

"Alright there?" he asked.

"Thanks, Harry," Ron huffed in response. "I really don't want to fall behind."

They picked up their pace in concert. Harry and Ron soon found themselves stumbling along next to Hermione and Neville, who was likewise being led by the elbow. Both Ron and Hermione stiffened, but by unspoken agreement, the four shouldered on together.

Hagrid called out from the front of the crowd, "Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec, jus' round this bend here."

And a chorus of impressed voices rose up with an "Oooooh!" as the straggly line of students staggered to a halt as the path opened up, and the lights of Hogwarts were seen by their young eyes for the first time.

The forest had faded away for the narrow path to open onto the edge of the great black lake. Across the lake, on top of a high mountain, stood the vast castle glimmering with lights.

They all stared.

Harry was overcome with nostalgia as he took the moment to let it sink in. He manfully blinked back the prickling in his eyes, as he gazed at the place that had been his true home for over six years. The longing in his heart drew him so strongly towards the building that he _hurt_. It was a bittersweet pleasure to return to his home, especially without the companionship of his loyal Hedwig. He stood stock still for a long moment, gazing, until Ron bumped into him and spoiled the mood.

"Blimey, it's huge!" Ron murmured, and Harry returned to the present.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Needing very little discussion, Harry and Ron joined Neville and Hermione in one boat, and they all sat there, still in the water, staring at the looming castle before them.

"FORWARD!" Hagrid eventually called, and the little fleet moved silently across the calm, dark lake.

The castle grew larger, and closer, slowly looming over the children in the little vessels. Eventually they all had to break their gazes and duck under some low-hanging ivy as the boats moved sweetly into the cliff, ultimately arriving under the castle itself.

Harry helped Neville and Hermione scramble out into the underground harbour he remembered. Hermione and Ron were still, wide-eyed and awed as they stared at the high rock ceiling and wetly glistening stone stairs.

Neville, Harry realised with a start, was fussing around feet-up in the little boat they had just climbed out of.

"What's wrong?" Harry hissed, half expecting what was to come.

Neville's voice floated up from underneath the seats. "I've lost Trevor again. I'm sure I had him just before, I was being so careful. But I just put him down for a second and now he's gone." Harry heard him sniffing in the darkness. "Gran's going to be so mad at me."

"Accio Trevor," Harry whispered, and the grumpy toad came shooting towards him all the way from the opposite end of the cavern.

Somewhat surprised at how far the creature had gotten, Harry grasped him firmly, before pressing Trevor into Neville's hands.

"Here you go."

He waited patiently for Neville to fuss around, finally stuffing the sullen creature into one of his deep robe pockets. Then the two boys had to scramble to catch up to the crowd.

The group crowd panted up a passageway in the rock, slipped across the grassy mound in front of the castle, and finally straggled through the Great Doors themselves into the castle, Harry and Neville bringing up the rear.

The herd of first year students finally huddled their way to a standstill in the middle of the entrance hall. From near the back, Harry heard Professor McGonagall's familiar voice. He took a step towards the front.

Peering over the shoulders of two of his taller year mates – Zabini and, er, was that Entwhistle, maybe? – Harry managed to spy the familiar figure at the front of the group. McGonagall was as tall and stern looking as he remembered, dressed in the emerald green robes that Harry only ever remembered seeing during special occasions. He realised, now that he had this new sort of distance to events, that she must have dressed up for the night. Her black hair was drawn tightly back into her customary bun, and Harry noticed – a stray detail jumping up and grabbing him – that she barely had a grey hair on her head. In fact, now that he looked closer, she stood a little straighter than he remembered too. And the way she walked, it was almost sprightly. Not that she had ever been a slouch.

Now that he had noticed these things, Harry worried that it had been the war that had aged her. It was as if the stress had eaten away at her softness and energy, leaving only her strength to grow in endurance. He made a note to protect her.

But for now, here she was, favouring the new students with a stern, intimidating look.

"At the end of the year," she continued, as Harry snapped back to attention, "the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Harry stifled a grin as he saw her eyes rake the crowd. Which promptly turned into a very subtle cough as he noticed his own hand sneak up to flatten his hair. But he'd forgotten the Sleekeazy's, and the quick pat turned into an awkward comb through his glossy locks with no conscious input on his part. He quickly avoided her eyes.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," the Professor continued. "Please wait quietly."

She turned and exited the room.

In the aftermath of her leaving, there was a kind of panicked silence. Harry didn't need to look around the room to see who was nervous and worried; the dread hung in the air like a physical thing. He forced his shoulders down and let out a silent sigh. Despite his experience, the mood was catching.

"What –" he heard Neville whisper to Ron less quietly than he meant to, "what do you think we have to do?"

His nervous friend had turned so pale he looked grey. Harry glanced at Ron. Ron didn't look much better. Every freckle on his face stood out in stark relief. He saw Ron swallow.

"I dunno," Ron mumbled. "Fred said something about having to wrestling a troll. He was probably joking, don't ya' think?" He ended somewhat desperately.

Neville gave a little wail.

Harry, once again a little removed from the immediacy of the situation, saw the students surrounding the two draw in deep breaths. The whispers travelled around the crowd like a wave. The noise picked up, as the children began processing what they had just overheard. To his left, Hermione started listing spells desperately. Zabini started fingering something up his left sleeve – was he carrying a knife? Near the door Hannah Abbott seemed to be picking at the hem of her robe sleeve. From within the murmurings Harry could pick out the slightly nasal voice of Malfoy. Although he couldn't hear what the blond was saying, surely it was something about his father's influence.

He decided it was time to step up. "Well," Harry began, slightly louder than was necessary, " _Hogwarts: A History_ never gave any death statistics for the Sorting Ceremony, so it's probably not technically dangerous."

Ron and Neville looked at him in relief.

Hermione stuttered to a halt. "That's actually true," she confirmed. "Myrtle Warren is the most recent confirmed death of any student, and that was in 1943. It seems Hogwarts is more dangerous for teachers than students. Garrick Elphick, Ragnok Rookwood and Delia Goodsmyth were listed as examples of staff who died prematurely during their employment in the last twenty years alone. Admittedly, they were spectacularly gory deaths – self-immolation, an experimental charm gone wrong, plus don't even get me started on the cockatrice disaster – but they weren't technically student deaths."

The whispers rose again.

Harry muffled a snigger. "I don't know if that helped them any, or made it all worse, Hermione."

Hermione's single glance his way made it clear that she really didn't have enough empathy for anyone else's worries during this particular point in time, and Harry let it go.

A wavering voice rose up out of the crowd, asking in Harry and Hermione's general direction: "What about if we don't count as students until we're Sorted? Was there data on that?" Harry though he recognised the tiny Chinese girl as Su Li, soon to be of Ravenclaw.

Ron began twitching.

Shortly thereafter, Su Li and Hermione began quietly discussing available Hogwarts statistics, attracting a number of other first-years to join in or listen. Harry's attention, meanwhile, was caught by a rather regal sniff, and the confidence in the voice of Draco Malfoy. Harry made his way closer.

"My father," Malfoy was saying, "is a member of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and he would never put a wizarding child at risk. Hogwarts education is lacking these days, he says, but he says that the Sorting is still done in the original, traditional style."

The small gaggle of students surrounding him _oohed_ and _aahed_ appropriately.

"What is it then?" One of them hesitantly asked.

Harry was fascinated to see Malfoy's face turn white, then red. "My father says that part of the tradition is that no one can say." Malfoy smirked a little, although the grimace came off as more of a nervous twitch.

By now Harry was standing just at the edge of the small huddle Malfoy was holding court to, and he had a good view of his long-time rival. He stood and watched in fascination.

What he saw only confirmed what he had thought on the train.

For so many years he had thought of Malfoy as an opponent, adversary, an equal and opposite. He remembered Malfoy as his rival in Quidditch, his enemy in Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad, with the Dark Mark branded on his on his arm. He associated Malfoy as the one who tried to kill Slughorn, and almost did kill Ron and Katie. He may never have been physically huge, but Malfoy's presence always loomed large in Harry's mind. And yet here he was as a rather snotty little eleven-year-old, trying and failing to bluff his way through his stress over the Sorting Hat.

It wasn't a let-down, precisely, but Harry didn't think he would think about Malfoy the same way ever again.

The conversations were interrupted by the breathy screams from one end of the room, and heads spun around to see the Hogwarts ghosts float through the wall.

Pearly-white and slightly translucent, they chatted amongst themselves amiably until they noticed the upturned faces. It seemed like a fantastic insight into the mysteries of Hogwarts for the impressionable first year students.

Harry wondered why the ghosts were late.

The tension, that had been ratchetting higher and higher in the room, snapped abruptly as McGonagall returned.

"Alright, people. No fussing about. Form a line by the door," she said, and Harry could almost see the relief as her no-nonsense tone brought the first-years back to earth with an almost-audible thud.

The thin line of nervous students then marched out of the antechamber, straight across the Entrance Hall, and towards the doors to the Great hall.

Harry leaned back to whisper something vaguely encouraging to his new friends.

His ambiguous reassurances calmed them somewhat. Hermione returned his gaze earnestly, a focussed scowl on her forehead, but generally trusting in his research and his calmness and his facts. Ron stopped twitching, and even Neville quietened down into a silent, patient shadow at Harry's elbow.

His heart warmed. Never could he have imagined that he would have such loyal friends. His heartstrings thrummed in pleasure.

Entering the Hall in front of Ron and his new friends, Harry looked over the familiar room imagining what it looked like to his friends who were seeing it for the first time.

Hundreds of older students were sitting around the long tables that dominated the floor. Heads craned in curiosity towards the new entrants, and Harry realised that the attention must be nerve-wracking for the other firsties. He, however, was gazing about the Hall itself, recognising things in familiar wonder.

Above the tables floated thousands and thousands of lit candles, glimmering and bobbing in their own gentle light.

Soaring grandly above everything was the velvety black ceiling, bewitched as the sky itself and shining with stars. He heard Hermione behind him make the same connection.

The line of new students stuttered to a stop, and there was a moment of silence, before the Sorting Hat at the front of the room began to sing.

Harry felt the tension in the students around him rise as the song drew to a close, and with a sudden jolt realised that his good plans might all come to a crashing halt if the hat disapproved of Harry's secrets.

As "Abbott, Hannah" was called to put the hat on, Harry pulled himself up with a jerk. He had thought he was so prepared! He had _known_ he was going to get Sorted! Yet now Harry was kicking himself once again for failing to predict and prepare for an obstacle in his path.

The thing could read his mind.

His mind raced as he catalogued his options. Beg? Blackmail? He didn't think his Occlumency would work, he was still pants at it, no improvement at all since that year with Snape. He waited with more than enough nervous energy to equal his fellow unsorted firsties. Harry barely even noticed his hands clasping and pecking at his sleeves. Hermione and Neville were once again sorted into Gryffindor house, a relief, now that Harry thought to worry about it. All too soon, Professor McGonagall read out from her parchment,

"Potter, Harry."

Harry stepped forward, and the hiss of whispers broke out from the seated students. He heard his name repeated down the long tables, the dark eyes of Professor Snape stood out from the crowd in a piercing stare, but with the experience of years Harry brushed away their gazes and ignored the faces now staring avidly at him.

The Sorting Hat dropped over his eyes.

"Hrmm..." the hat began. "Goodness, you're difficult. Very difficult. I see I've Sorted you before. That's a first, you know."

And Harry stiffened. It appeared his choice of approach was not going to matter, the hat had clearly taken it out of his hands.

"I see you were a Gryffindor before. Yes...the house suited you well. But you have bigger ambitions than just repeating your time. You'll need to be cunning, you know. How do you feel about Slytherin this time around?"

Harry protested quickly, but the hat continued like it had not heard him.

"Hufflepuff perhaps? That's some amazing loyalty to your friends, going through all of this to save them. And that thirst for learning – a very Ravenclaw trait, you were lacking it last time, I see. And look at you now, practically desperate for it. Occlumency, you say…" And Harry's heart plummeted. "Well, I grant that you'll need it. I'd like to say you have time, but I'm really not too sure… Survival is very Slytherin, you know."

Harry used his desperate strength to think strongly at the hat. "Gryffindor, I need to be in Gryffindor, otherwise I don't know how I'll do it."

"Oh, yes," the hat replied. "I see your goal. But that has nothing to do with me."

Harry could have sworn his heart almost stopped. But the hat continued. "It's brave, I grant you, but I'm not convinced…"

A pause.

Harry's mind whirled, past and future decisions flickering through his memory like an explosion of experiences. He barely felt his muscles tensing as he sat on the stool. His worries about Occlumency and Snape and Quirrell were all so close to the surface of his mind, and he just knew that the hat would see through him. Now that was a thought…could the Sorting Hat train him in Occlumency? Once he had persuaded it not to spill all his secrets?

The hat seemed to sigh. "Not Ravenclaw after all then, I see. I'm a hat, Mr Potter."

"What?"

"The most incredible piece of four-person enchanting ever to grace the Earth. Gifted with intelligence, personality, charm, and more style than Hogwarts students can recognise. A great sense of humour, a delightful voice. I even have perfect pitch. But I'm a hat. Not some kind of all-knowing, all-seeing magical mystic."

"I…don't think I'm following," Harry had to admit.

"I don't do magic." The hat growled at him. "I'm not a wizard. I don't have a 'mind'. I am magical and wizardly and clever, but those are not the same thing. I was created for the sole purpose of Sorting students into their Hogwarts Houses. Do catch up."

"Oh." Harry found himself inundated with a confused flurry of feelings. The hat seemed to jump on something within that maelstrom, and settled further onto his head. The Hat continued. "Now, I know what you intend, but I really don't think I should let you convince me twice. You'd make a fantastic Slytherin, you even acknowledge it yourself."

Desperately, feeling his fingers clench – white-knuckled – on the stool below him, Harry found himself thinking of his future plans.

Harry heard an interested "Hmmm" in his mind, and after a long moment, the hat sighed. "Well, I…you've got the temperament. I hate to feel like you're manipulating me, but…suicidal heroics aren't generally a Slytherin trait." There was a pause. "Is _that_ your grand plan?"

"…does it make a difference?"

The hat snapped at him, irritated. "What do you think? Of all the foo–" It shifted slightly on his head. "That's it?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"What's wrong with it? Nothing's wrong with it, if you're a foolish, impulsive Gryffindor with no survival instincts whatsoever."

Harry relaxed. "Oh. Brilliant, then."

"Brilliant is not precisely the word I'd use. But you make your point well…if you aren't having second thoughts?"

Harry quickly confirmed his thoughts. The hat sighed.

"Oh, alright," it continued. "Good luck then. You'll need it. And don't worry about your secrets. They're safe with me. Yes," it added. "Even from Dumbledore. I do have standards, you know. You've convinced me. You're GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry removed the hat with a sigh of relief as the word echoed around the chamber. He joined Neville and Hermione at the Gryffindor table to the sounds of cheers and chanting. The Weasley twins were making some sort of loud racket, further down the table.

He could not help but throw a wayward glance back in the direction of the Slytherin tables. The young Malfoy was looking at him in consternation.

"Hah," Harry couldn't help stop his 'told you so' smile. His self-congratulatory thoughts buoyed him up even more than the welcoming smiles of his new housemates, and Harry slipped into his seat with pleasure.

He shared a smile with Neville and Hermione as they waited for Ron to join them. Eventually, the last of the first years had been Sorted and joined their new houses, and Dumbledore stood to share a few words.

Harry took a moment to glance carefully at the high table. Dumbledore was standing there in his charismatic way, his long beard glowing brightly in the flickering light, his eyes twinkling madly.

Professor McGonagall looked to be pleased, from what Harry could see of her stern face in the light. She watched Dumbledore's speech with apparent fascination. Hagrid peered eagerly Harry's way, but Professors Snape and Quirrell had apparently seen their fill of him, and seemed to be busy ignoring his presence.

Harry hoped that his fuss with the hair goop had changed enough of his appearance that Snape's first impression of him was different. He didn't need to be a favourite pupil, for Merlin's sake, but a little less unthinking hatred would be nice.

Remembering their abilities, Harry hurriedly turned his eyes away.

The banquet passed with speed, Harry meeting his new house mates, and enjoying the food. He listened absently to Hermione and Percy discussing the library's collection of books on Transfiguration, and Neville sharing the story of his accidental magic.

He filled up rapidly on the warm, good food, and realised with surprise that he was sleepy. It seemed that despite his prior knowledge of the day's events, and previous life experience, his body was still young, and overwhelmed by everything he had been through.

He felt the distantly familiar jolt of pain from the direction of Snape and Quirrell, but was quick to dismiss the problem from his mind. He was moderately sure that only Voldemort could assault him without direct eye contact. He would think innocent thoughts, about potions, he thought, and Quidditch. In the meantime, he would avoid meeting their gaze and keep his thoughts innocent in their presence.

Harry listened absently to the final announcements and school song, and was pleased to follow Percy back to the Gryffindor common room.

The familiar red and gold furnishings welcomed him to the space warmly, and Harry relaxed in the familiar sights and scents of his old home.

A few older students were gawking at him from the edges of the room, but he easily dismissed their stares as the familiar comforts made themselves known.

Harry gazed blearily around at his new year mates. Hermione was blinking owlishly herself, and he nodded goodnight to her as the boys walked out to their own dorm room.

A few muffled comments later, and Harry dropped into his canopied bed. The familiar scents relaxed him, and he was out like a light.

He was roused sometime later by a persistent knocking the window. Harry rolled over in his bed blearily, then his head popped up as his memories returned. It was exactly midnight.

His wand.

He scrambled out of bed, noticing that the other beds were still canopied and still.

"Shh," he whispered, as he let the Postal Owl in. "Thanks for this." He carefully untied the parcel from the owl, and tucked the little package back into his mokeskin pouch. Here's twelve knuts for your service."

He poured the coins into the little leather pouch on the owl's leg. "Sorry for the fuss. You're perfectly on time."

The owl stared at him scornfully, slightly insulted that he had even considered the possibility of a less than perfect service, then left to swoop out the window again.

"Harry?"

Harry jumped. But it was just Neville, poking his head out from his own hanging canopy.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," he whispered back. "I told you earlier that an owl would be dropping my wand off later tonight. It's why I didn't have it on the train."

"Oh yeah," Neville whispered, "You did say that, didn't you? It's okay, I forgot some stuff too. Gran will be sending them on tomorrow."

"Yeah," Harry agreed as he crept back into bed. "How come you're awake? Did I wake you?"

Neville blushed. "No. I'm not homesick or anything, I'm really not. I just haven't fallen asleep yet."

Of course he was homesick. Harry tried to send friendly vibes Neville's way. "That's okay then. Do you want to talk for a little bit? Just to relax?"

"Nah," Neville declined. "I'm fine. You get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning Harry."

And Harry was just tired enough that he took Neville at his word, and snuggled back down into his blankets. He'd made it to Hogwarts, he'd Sorted into Gryffindor, he'd made all the right friends, and now there was even a chance that the Ministry Trace was not on his wand.

He didn't even notice his head hitting the pillow.


	9. Patterns Well-Practised

Harry rose bright and early the next morning, and – hair goop and all – went down to the common room quickly. His house prefects offered to see him to the Hall for breakfast, but Harry waved their offers away impatiently. He was finally back in his true home, and keen to fit into his familiar routines as soon as possible.

He was early to the table and entertained himself while he ate by flipping through one of the supplementary potions textbooks he'd found himself. If it was possible, Harry wanted to reduce Snape's bad impression of him. True, he wanted to protect and predict the timeline, but suffering the twisted man's wrath for no reason was unconscionable.

The stares and whispers from the other students barely dented his good mood. Harry had reconnected with Hermione over breakfast – she seemed impressed that he was working through a school book, and finally Neville and then Ron arrived, and the foursome were ready to face their day.

"Harry!" Ron greeted him cheerfully as he clambered into a seat across the table. "You fell asleep on the wrong bed last night!"

"Huh?" Harry froze, before awkwardly swallowing his bacon. How was it possible to make a mistake with a bed? "What do you mean?"

"The trunks," Neville murmured, as he slid in to the seat at Harry's left. "They were all organised at the end of each bed. You fell asleep on mine. Don't worry about it," he added, nervousness written on his face. "I didn't mind or anything, we just swapped the trunks over and I slept on yours. Was that okay?"

"Ah." The first moment he got tired, he'd fallen back into old habits. Harry looked earnestly as his nervous friend's face. "Well, it was fully my mistake," he apologised, "so don't worry about it. We can swap back tonight, if you want, or just stay where we are."

"It's all up to you," Neville offered with discomfort. "I'm fine with whatever you want."

"We'll just stay where we are," Harry settled decisively, stubbornly attached to his bed of six years. And who was to say when he'd make that mistake again? He made a mental note to help Neville out with his confidence.

They had a slow if rowdy breakfast, each discussing their night, and Harry despaired of getting through his regular Daily Prophet until his friends had settled into Hogwarts proper. Suddenly, Hermione jumped up with a gasp about being late for the first class.

Harry reassured her quickly, "It's okay, I've figured out where to go."

She looked at him doubtfully, but stepped back beside him.

Minutes later, Harry's friends were following him closely as they wandered around the castle on their way to the first class. It would happen that way for the rest of the week, Harry suspected. Without a second thought, he would stride familiarly around the castle as though he had spent many years in it, repeatedly forgetting it was supposed to be new to him. The numerous staircases, trick steps, locked doors, shortcuts and longcuts wouldn't faze him. It was like coming home to a family with extra personality – chaotic, but familiar, Harry thought. With him to follow, none of his friends would ever be late to class. He forgot what it might look like to his classmates. His friends, without guessing his secret at all, would easily fall into the habit of flanking him as he walked. Minutes later, Ron, Hermione and Neville were pattering willingly along in Harry's wake, nodding gravely as he pointed out helpful hints, and generally learning to follow his lead.

Well, Ron and Hermione still needed someone between them for peacekeeping for the most part, but it was more or less working out as Harry had envisioned.

Charms was delightfully easy for Harry, and he made sure to hang back and prompt his friends instead of drawing attention to himself. Pairing up with Ron, he subtly guided his progress, and made sure to suggest that Hermione did the same thing with Neville.

History of Magic was as dull as he remembered, but Harry came prepared, and used the time to study his own books instead. Hermione, whom he had chosen to sit next to for this class, seemed slightly scandalized, but Harry had put out a Self-Writing Quill to record any facts that might later be important, and in the end she was pacified by his admittedly good use of time.

Transfiguration, where he sat with Ron again, was a breeze, and later Harry made sure to keep a low profile, and a low gaze, in Defence Against the Dark Arts where Professor Quirrell stammered and stuttered his way through a cringe-worthy lesson. He kept his eyes firmly on the desk and textbook in front of him, carefully avoiding the teacher's eyes when he had to look up. The only thing Harry was anticipating to get out of this year's Defence classes were the admittedly solid textbooks. He thought fondly of the seven years' worth of texts he had back in his trunk, and wrote helpful notes to Neville who shared his desk.

The week continued unabated. Harry diligently did his homework with Hermione in the library or common room, but always moved on to pouring through his own private texts and library copies extensively. When he needed a break, he wandered the library, browsing the book spines hopefully in search for a book or parchment on Occlumency. Despite his efforts, nothing came to light. In the evenings, in the privacy found within his drawn bed hangings, he continued to do his best with his Occlumency exercises, but his old lessons with Snape were still all he had to go on.

He scowled, flashbacks to the Potions Professor snarling out, "Empty yourself of emotion!" were as baffling and confusing to him as the instruction had always been.

Three days went by before Neville joined Harry and Hermione at their table in the library. Neville, it appeared, was quite impressed with Harry's knowledge and attitude, and joined the duo in the library more often than not. His company came at the perfect time, Harry's latest surge of enthusiasm was nearing its end and studying was becoming a struggle again.

Back at Hogwarts, there were years of familiar patterns of behaviour just waiting to distract him.

So, despite his lack of confidence, Harry was pleased Neville joined them. He found him a studious worker, and his somewhat grim determination not to be overwhelmed made up for his lack of brilliance. Whenever Harry found his own focus beginning to lag, he only had to look at Neville's grim resolve and Hermione's passionate excitement, to find new purpose in his own studies.

Meanwhile, Ron watched his new friends study with dim comprehension. He tried to join them, but never failed to get frustrated by small distractions. It came to words on Thursday afternoon.

Hermione and Harry were about to step out for their regular study session. Their homework was done, but this was a preview of the work for next week, and a little self-directed study for Harry.

Ron, returning through the common room from elsewhere, eyed them both beadily as they walked towards the portrait, then called Harry over.

"Harry, mate. How'd you feel about a game of chess, hey?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Harry and I are going to the library to study, Ron. He's holding his books. Can't you see?"

Ron bristled. "Well I thought he might want to do something fun. We're not all swots like you. How 'bout it Harry? D'you have some time to hang out with your best mate?"

Harry grimaced. Ron's familiar jealousy was rising up again.

"Some of us have better things to do with our time than play games, Ron." Hermione scolded. "We only get seven years at Hogwarts, don't you know."

"Yeah, but Harry's cooler than that." Ron insisted. "He plays Quidditch and everything. He's not like you."

Trying to avoid the escalating conflict, Harry stepped forward.

"I'd love a game of chess, Ron, but how about later tonight? I want to get some study done while the library is open."

Ron flushed a deep red, and spoke very quickly. "But I met you first. You're always studying."

"We grew up in muggle homes," Harry finally tried. "You are years ahead of us in terms of culture and history and stuff. We just want to catch up."

Hermione looked like she desperately wanted to add more. Harry admitted to himself that he was stretching the truth conveniently, but fortunately she held her tongue.

"Huh," Ron settled. "I guess you are years behind. I bet you don't even know Beedle the Bard or Bowman Wright."

Hermione fell for it. "Who are they?"

"Only the most famous bard ever! And how could you not know about Bowman Wright? He invented the Snitch, for Merlin's sake! The world literally wouldn't be the same without him!"

"How do you know about him?"

"He's on the chocolate frog cards and everything! Blimey, and you think you know everything!"

To Harry's relief, Hermione's scowl transformed into a more thoughtful look, while he took advantage of the moment.

"Wow, I see we do have a lot to catch up on. So we'll just be heading to the library for now then, and I guess we'll have that chess game after dinner tonight? I'll be prepared to get thrashed again."

Ron grinned. Despite Harry's advantage in years, he still hadn't managed to beat Ron at a game.

Nevertheless, Harry could see the determination in his eyes: Ron had been the first to meet Harry, Ron would not lose his new friend simply because of a little hard work. From that day on, the redhead made more of an effort to study with the group. It made Harry wonder just how much of the duo's previous disinterest in study was his own fault. It was a sobering thought. Harry encouraged this effort by letting Ron teach him wizarding chess some evenings in the common room. Despite his improvements, Ron continued to win. The familiar pattern of conversation during these games was a comfort.

Neville joined in that evening too, and turned out to be better at chess than Harry was. It was a surprise, that Neville could beat Harry at chess. Not because he thought Neville was dumb, but rather…Harry could accept Ron beating him at chess because he had always beaten Harry at chess, and Hermione was a genius. But Neville, Neville was just an ordinary eleven-year-old who was only generally familiar with the rules.

Perhaps Harry's chess playing was really just that bad.

It appeared that they were well on their way to being best friends again, despite Harry's change of behaviour and Ron and Hermione's awkward clashes.

All in all, it was Hermione whom Harry worried about the most.

Without his unnatural advantage in their classes – the extra six years of learning made first year a sleepwalk – Hermione would have been the undisputed top student. He worried slightly that his successes in the face of all of her hard work would create problems between the two of them.

He finally took her aside in the library during a small break from their books, and shared with her a private conversation. Her attitude to Harry, and life in general, left Harry feeling impressed and shaken.

"Of course," Hermione began, when he put the question to her, "I love the study, and I love being good at it." She gave him a quick grin. "It's _magic_ , Harry. You were muggle-raised too. Is that the reason why you're also so focussed on your studies?"

Harry blinked. Indeed, that particular pattern of thought had died within him quite quickly during his first timeline, not lasting much past his first few days of homework. Even now he was only going through with it because he could guilt himself into it with the death of his friends and family. He felt a stab of shame.

His friend paused, and lowered her voice somewhat.

"Look, I know I'm not quite the same as everyone else like this," she admitted. "I never quite fit in at the muggle schools back home either, and it was such a relief to find out that in fact I _was_ different to them." She continued. "It's really great to have come here, and learn all sorts of things, and find people who are finally like me!"

Hermione met his eyes with joy for one embarrassing moment, before she glanced away shyly. "I never had many friends before," she admitted. "No one else ever got how exciting it is to know things."

Guiltily, Harry couldn't help but strain his ears to catch her words. Had she said 'many' or 'any', just now?

But she was moving on to what Harry had been burning to know.

"It's wonderful to have met someone like you," she admitted. "It's the first time I've ever had someone to study with, and compete with, and bounce ideas off. I think it's fantastic that you're actually better than me at the practical magic. I'm learning so much faster than I would on my own, and it's much more fun with a group of us. And Ron, I suppose."

Harry was bemused at her attitude. She really was not jealous for recognition at all. It was the burning passion for learning itself that seemed to drive her. He cocked his head.

"Didn't the Sorting Hat try to put you in Ravenclaw, by any chance?"

She giggled. "Actually, yes. What gave it away?" Hermione's face was flushed with pleasure, and Harry realised with another stab of guilt that in his last timeline, he had barely ever asked her questions about herself. "I was offered Ravenclaw, obviously, because I love learning so much. But really," she continued, her eyes growing darker and serious, "I said no, because I don't want knowledge for knowledge's sake. I want to do good things with my life," she admitted. "I want to make a difference, and everything I learn will help me. So the Sorting Hat put me in Gryffindor for that," she concluded with a smile.

Hesitantly, Harry admitted that his purposes were somewhat similar. Hermione's eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

Harry was quiet as they returned to their books to study, and was somewhat less focussed than usual as the next hour rolled by.

Hermione really was a very mature eleven-year old, he found himself musing. At eighteen, mentally speaking, Harry had considered that he was more experienced, maybe even wiser, than his friends. He had certainly been burdened by knowledge of a future far darker and heavier than his classmates dreamed of. But here was proof that even at eleven, Hermione Granger was planning seriously for her future.

She had big dreams. Saw problems and planned to be the one to solve them. It was humbling.

He was rather ashamed, and used the thought to snap out of his thoughts and concentrate instead on his advanced charms text. With Hermione's work ethic inspiring him, Harry was sure that he could work even harder.

Finally, the end of the week rolled around, and Harry found himself with his friends waiting in the potions dungeon for their first ever lesson with Professor Snape.

Harry's feelings were mixed. He had years and years of memories reminding him how judgemental, and bitter the man could be. But he had spent the morning pondering over what he knew of the man's history, and Harry had been once again struck by the loyalty and love that had guided Snape through life.

Harry was in two minds: one, he could remain at odds with Snape, and relate to him within the familiar limits of their previous relationship.

Or two, and Harry was leaning towards this option even as the thought: a very little effort was required on his part, not to build a good relationship with the Professor, but to avoid a few preconceptions. Surely, he had been hated on sight because of his similarities to his father, Snape's most despised memory. Hadn't his embarrassment at Madam Primpernelle's, his preparation on the train, already gone towards the goal of making himself look less like James Potter, and more like Lily Evans? Surely it wasn't actually possible for him to have _done_ something to make Snape hate him, within the period of a week. It must simply have been his looks. Possibly his attitude.

He did not hate Snape, despite what he knew Snape had done, or would do, because – Harry found himself coming back to the same thought again, and again – no matter how much Snape thought he hated Harry for looking like James, for surviving when Lily died, for being an average student – the one person that Snape must surely hate most in the world was Snape himself.

Nor did he pity him, for despite his past, he was a horrible teacher, and a cruel, bitter and unforgiving man. By choice.

But the practical problem now lay before him: to change their relationship? Or keep it the same?

His problem was mainly an emotional one, Harry thought, as he slicked his hair back before breakfast, as he had every morning this week.

It was the little decisions that were changing things, he had already discovered. And he'd made them already. Now he was just anxious to discover if this one worked.

But everything was going to come to a head in a few small minutes, as he attempted to change his relationship with Snape for the better.

Hermione was excited, Ron nonchalant, and Neville anxiously prepared in advance for their double Potions on Friday. Harry himself was beyond ready for the course work to begin.

The foursome were settled and ready for the teacher with time to spare. The cold room had everyone on edge, and the dark hid just enough of the pickled specimen jars to make them look creepy. There was a complex kind of smell lingering – Harry lit his wand with a quick wave – and yes, there were the craters and strange splashes on the ceiling. Physical proof of past potion disasters. Hermione gasped, and looked serious.

Harry put his wand out just in time.

The door at the back of the potions dungeon slammed open, and the sour-looking teacher strode to the front of the room, his dark robes billowing wildly behind him.

He rapidly made his way down the list of names on the register, pausing only when he reached Harry's name.

"Ah, yes," he said softly, with a sneer. "Harry Potter, our new – _celebrity_."

A few Slytherins sniggered quietly. Harry did his best to look attentive and innocent. He had just enough attention to spare to notice that Malfoy was part of the giggling Slytherin crowd, despite the fact they were not precisely enemies yet.

If he was actually eleven, Harry would have been furious. As it was, he barely noticed he might once have cared.

Snape fixed the class with a cold stare, and the giggles faded into silence. He finished taking the roll.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began. He spoke in a hissing whisper that was familiar to Harry, but the rest of the class strained their ears silently to hear. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe that this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses...I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." Snape's soft whisper turned harshly into a growl as he finished his speech, and there was silence as every eye stared straight at him.

Harry kept his gaze on the teacher in front of him, while Ron and Neville exchanged a silent look. Hermione's back was a straight as a rod. She was clearly keen to prove that she was not one of the dunderheads.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"The Draught of Living Death, sir," Harry answered evenly, his eyes fixed carefully on Snape's rather average chin.

Snape raised a scornful eyebrow, then paused. Hermione's hand had flown up, but she now watched Harry eagerly from beside him.

"Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" the teacher next snapped out.

"Inside the stomach of a goat, sir," Harry responded.

Snape fixed him once more with his dark, black eyes. "And the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"They're the same thing, sir," Harry said, and kept his eyes fixed on the spot in front of him, his face blank as he could make it. "Also known as aconite, I think."

There was a brief pause as the two stared at each other, and then Snape snapped his head around.

"Well? Why aren't you all copying this down?" he scowled at the rest of the class. "Don't expect house points for this, Mr Potter, merely for doing your pre-class reading. You will soon find that although you think you know everything, you are merely _almost_ at the starting line."

Harry held his breath silently until the Professor turned away, and then silently exhaled his breath.

That had gone better than he thought, Harry mused. He had been polite, had successfully answered the questions, and Hermione had avoided making a nuisance of herself.

Had he acted like his mother? Had it worked? Snape had seemed unimpressed.

They were all rapidly divided into pairs, and set to mixing up the first recipe in their textbooks: a simple potion to cure boils. Harry and Ron's cauldron rapidly developed into a rather good mix, despite Ron's occasional quiet outbursts of "Pre-class reading?!" to distract them. Hermione and Neville, working together behind them, also did well. Hermione managed to catch Neville's hand before he dropped the porcupine quills in prematurely. Snape wandered past to check on their potions, and moved beyond them rapidly with barely a sniff.

He stopped next to Malfoy's potion, which looked very similar to the four Gryffindors', and used it to illustrate to the class what a perfect Cure for Boils should look like.

Hermione stiffened, about to take offense, but a quiet word from Ron, of all people, stopped her.

"Don't push it," he muttered. "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty."

The dark Professor must have heard the voice, because his eyes flickered towards the small group, but was apparently unable to identify the speaker. He glowered at the room at large, and continued with his lesson.

The period ended with no further fuss, the first years having successfully bottled and turned in the very first potion of their schooling.

The silent class eventually spilled out into the hallway, and the voices of their students slowly grew. Hermione could clearly not decide to the impressed or indignant.

Surprisingly, it was Ron and Neville who calmed her ire.

"Cheer up," said Ron, as they puffed their way up the stairs. "Snape's always taking points off Fred and George. He's famous for being strict and for favouring the Slytherins."

Neville added his two cents. "He's really scary when he stares at you," he added nervously, "But that was a really well-behaved class. I guess he has to be strict to avoid accidents."

Harry was pleased to see Hermione's help and less attention from Snape was making a difference already. Small decisions, indeed.

Hermione deflated slightly.

"I was just mad that he didn't draw attention to our potions," she admitted. "Ours were both every bit as good as Malfoys, and it wasn't fair," she pouted.

Harry glanced her way. "I thought you didn't want the recognition," he teased, "so much as the knowledge, and what you can do with it."

Hermione blushed.

"True," she admitted. "It just doesn't seem right for a teacher…" Her voice drifted away. Ron and Neville were nodding in agreement, but Harry wanted to have the last word.

"I guess it takes all sorts," he suggested. "I've heard he's a brilliant potions master. Perhaps it will get better as we get older and we no longer have to go over the basics."

The attractive proposition was greeted cheerfully by his friends, although Ron and Neville still held reservations. In Ron's case, it seemed that he was holding the pre-class reading as a grudge.

Hermione's mood improved as she realised that high teacher expectations would improve her learning rapidly, and she and Harry reassured Neville that they would help him prepare. All four of them should definitely remember to come to potions class, always prepared. Ron let out a low groan, but agreed with his friends.

Thus the week came to a close with no great problems, but rather a number of successes. Harry and his friends made sure to complete their homework, and Hermione and Harry managed their own extensive, extra reading.

It wasn't easy. Harry, his good intentions fading under the daily grind of homework and first year lessons, found his mind wandering off into daydreams with depressing regularity when he cracked open his books. The only thing he seemed to have going for him at the moment was how short the homework tasks were in comparison to sixth year requirement. Whenever his focus began to wane, Harry simply called to him the face of a friend who would die, the look of their bodies lying cold and dead on the ground, and his concentration immediately improved. Therefore, he was going to be like Hermione, he was going to be prepared.

Hermione, her nose buried in a thick tome on potions, glanced up at him as she turned a page, and Harry reapplied himself to the study.

He had done all of this once before, after all. How hard could it be to do it all over again, but better?


	10. Mercies of the Fates

Saturday morning dawned, as expected, and Harry found himself eating a late-ish breakfast with his three friends, all of whom had different expectations of the day.

Hermione, to no one's surprise, was suggesting that they study in the library.

"We really need to build our foundational knowledge," she argued to the group. "Everything we will learn at Hogwarts, with the general exception of the elective classes of course, will be based of what we learn in first and second year. So if we don't learn as much as possible over the next two years, our O.W.L and N.E.W.T years will be that much harder. I desperately need to learn the context in which the spells we were taught this week were created, and I don't understand the logic of Latin incantations or wand movements at all. Unbelievably, they don't actually seem to be…Latin. But they simply can't be nonsense. I think we should dedicate six or seven hours of today to study. You agree with me Harry, don't you?"

Before Harry could respond, Ron interrupted. "Don't be ridiculous! It's a Saturday. You've already made us finish most of the homework, and it's the end of a really long week, so we need to relax. I wanted to sleep in this morning, but you shouldn't keep on ruining my day like that."

Hermione snapped back immediately. "Oh, well what did you have in mind then?"

"Let's just hang out in the common room," Ron suggested brightly. "I've managed to persuade Percy to loan us his chess set, and we could play games and stuff all day."

"Well," Neville worried, "I need to write Gran for some more stuff I'd forgotten I'd forgotten. I guess I can do that in the common room or the library. I'll need to stop by the dormitory first, if that's ok?" He glanced Harry's way. "I'll need my quill and parchment and ink, and then maybe we could figure out how to get to the school owlery? I could go on my own, of course. I don't mind. I just thought it might be nice if we all went and learned where it was together."

Hermione was nodding her head thoughtfully, Ron looked less enthused, so Harry decided to throw his own idea into the mix.

"I'm happy to show you where the owlery is, Neville," he began, and Neville perked up. "And I definitely want to study some more. I need to look around the library. But what I really wanted to do is explore the grounds."

He sat back and looked at his friends.

"The grounds?" Hermione wondered. "You know where all the classes are, so now you want to explore outside? We're not allowed to go into the Forbidden Forest Harry, that's not what you had in mind?"

Harry shrugged. "I was thinking more about walking around the lake, or finding out who lives in that little hut down the hill. What do you think?"

In short order, Harry had organised his little troupe back to the common room long enough for Neville to write his letter, before showing them up to the owlery and finally shepherding them out onto the grounds.

Ron's enthusiasm, which had been buoyed by the suggestion of an adventure, sank as soon as they stepped outside and into the light drizzle.

Harry didn't notice however, as he was slipping and sliding down the muddy hill towards Hagrid's house with great speed, where he knocked eagerly on the door.

Fang began barking raucously from behind the door while Harry waited.

He friends had just managed to stumble to a halt beside him, and were catching their breaths when the door clicked open and the great, craggy face of Hagrid appeared in the crack.

"Down Fang! Who're you lot, then?"

Harry waved cheerfully. "Hi! I'm Harry Potter, and these are my friends." He introduced the still puffing Gryffindors beside him. "We're new here, and we wanted to know who lived here, and why you live here, and what you do?"

"How big is your dog?" Neville burst out, and then slapped his hands across his mouth. Harry realised that Fang's barking and scrabbling had not stopped since he knocked.

"Yer little Harry?" Hagrid asked gruffly, then glanced down near where Fang must be. "Well come on in then. I ain't seen you since you was a wee tot." He disappeared from the gap in the door suddenly. "Get back Fang! Down boy. Come on in, Harry an' friends! Don' worry 'bout Fang, he's a real softy when yeh get t' know 'im. But yeh'll have to get th' door yerself, I reckon."

Harry pushed the heavy wooden door open, and clambered into the house. His friends followed less enthusiastically behind him.

Once they were all inside, and the door closed again, Fang slowly settled down to chew some great bone in front of the fire, and Hagrid set himself to boiling some tea and serving up his memorable rock cakes. Harry politely took one, but left it on his plate. His friends were less fortunate, and committed themselves to chewing the things before Harry could subtlety warn them away.

Finally Hagrid settled down at the huge, rough-hewn table.

"Harry Potter, yeh say. I'm Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper o' the Keys at Hogwarts. Yeh can all just call me Hagrid though, ev'ryone does. Yeh can think o' me as the gameskeeper or groundskeeper 'round here. I look after the grounds an' the creatures an' the Forest, when it needs it. Great job, it is. Dumbledore's a great man, I tell yeh. It's a real honour to help 'im out."

"I see," said Hermione politely, subtly dropping the rock cake onto the floor for Fang to chew. "How was it that you came into this line of work?" Harry smiled. She looked like she wanted to take notes. Ron piped up every now and then with a more personal question, while Neville seemed to fade out of the conversation entirely to keep an eye on the dog. Harry just sat back and let the conversation happen.

Hagrid answered all their questions with a beaming face. He looked positively delighted at their interest.

Finally Harry piped up again. "Sorry Hagrid, I can't remember if you said. How do you know me, again?"

"Great Shakes!" Hagrid boomed. "I forgot yeh migh' not remember. Yeh were just a wee tyke when I saw yeh last, and a very sad business it all was, what with yeh parents an' all." Harry saw Hermione shut her mouth with a snap. "But I was great friends with yeh folks! Lily an' James Potter were fine folk, I say. I knew 'em when they were students, an' some of the cheekiest lads I've ever seen, too. Some of the finest wizards an' witches to graduate Hogwarts. And you –" Hagrid turned to Neville, who dragged his eyes off Fang reluctantly, "I 'eard you was a Longbottom? Not Frank an' Alice's lad?"

Harry suddenly felt quite guilty as Neville's face went even whiter, and he nodded tightly. Hagrid peered into Neville's face, then sat back into his chair with a sigh. The four Gryffindors listened in silence as the huge chair creaked mightily under his weight. In the silence Fang gnawed noisily on his bone.

"Fine folks, Alice an' Frank were," Hagrid nodded sadly. "Never let anyone tell you otherwise. I was great friends with 'em, too, y'see. An' they were close to the Potters. Some of the fines' people I've ever 'ad the honour of meeting. Yeh look just like yer mum," Hagrid nodded Neville's way, and Neville sat up a little straighter to hear the stories.

Harry's eyes, wandering a little as Hagrid's voice rambled on, lit upon a tea-stained newspaper headline, the paper sitting crumpled and discoloured next to the kindling box. His whole body flushed with adrenaline and he slipped suddenly out of his seat to snatch it up.

 _GRINGOTTS BREAK IN LATEST!_

Harry's heart almost stopped.

The Philosopher's Stone! Harry broke out in cold shivers as he realised that his actions in changing Hagrid's behaviour may have let Quirrell successfully stealing the stone. The timing, cause and effect. He scanned the article, but there was very little information. _The vault that was searched,_ Harry finally found _, had been emptied earlier that week._ So, a relief then, but due to the mercies of the fates alone.It could have gone either way.

"Ah," Hagrid rumbled, catching Harry's eye. "Yeh don' want t' worry about that old rag." He tugged it out of Harry's hands and threw the paper into the fire. "Old news is old news, nothing int'resting in there."

His friends, who had relaxed as Hagrid regaled them with stories, now seemed confused as the gentle giant suddenly jumped to his feet to ferry them out of his house.

"Yer all welcome t' come an' visit ol' Hagrid," he said, as he stood at the door. "But I'm sure yeh'll 'ave better things t' do on a Saturday than read ol' papers and drink tea. I'll invite yer down another day, but fer now I've got t' get busy."

Harry allowed himself to be ferried tout of the house and back outside, his mind still working furiously. Was there anything else that he had forgotten or miscalculated? Nothing important came to mind.

His extra moment of introspection did give Harry a chance to avoid another point of conflict, and he made a note to remind Neville not to bring his Remembrall to flying class on Wednesday. But then his mind went straight back to the shock he had just received. He'd come back in time to change everything, and almost ruined it all in eight weeks.

But luck. Luck was all it had been! Harry wondered how long his good luck would last. He had been taking the first week back too easy. His feet slipping and sliding in the mud – when had Hermione taken his elbow? It seemed she was helping him up the hill – and Harry realised that he would have to up his game.

It was less than half an hour later that three of them found themselves in the library, having dropped Ron off in the common room as they picked up their bags. Neville, it seemed, was quite excited to work on his Charms now that he had learned that his mother had been particularly gifted at them. Hermione had at least eight books on theory spilled open before her when Harry's mind finally woke up. Both of them looked up at him in surprise when he left them at the study table to wander the shelves.

He had never really explored the library like Hermione had. It was always just another place in the castle that he had taken for granted, but everything was coming to a head, and the famous Hogwarts library was now his last hope. Where would books on Occlumency be? Defence Against the Darks Arts seemed like a likely section, now all he had to do was find it.

Harry recalled vividly his time in the Restricted Section, and also the weeks that Hermione had practically lived in the Legal Section, when they were trying to defend Buckbeak from execution. But the rest of the library seemed a little Byzantine to him. He had used library books plenty of times before, but perhaps…

Harry realised with a little shiver of embarrassment that almost all the books he had ever read for homework had been found for him by Hermione. No wonder she had felt the need to organise his study habits and occasionally treated him like an errant child. He had never actually managed to figure out the library of his own school.

Harry casually scanned past the names of a few books that sat face out on a nearby shelf. There were no labels on the spines.

 _Bestiarium Magicum_. _Bulbous, Sporophytic, and Evergreen Plants_. _Bylaws, Policies, and Legal Acts of Education_.

Harry had no idea what section he was in. He pulled all three of them out of the shelves they were in. They were even different ages, although two of them were released by the same publishing company. Harry very carefully levered them back onto the shelves they had come from.

Harry half turned to look enquiring in Hermione's direction, but she was engrossed once more in her studies. _Miscellaneous library section, number one_. Harry mentally labelled it in his mind and moved on, hoping that further shelves made more sense.

The longer he wandered, the more intimidating he found the place. The ceiling hovered high over the bookshelves, which themselves towered over Harry himself. Yet despite the upward space, the library seemed to crowd in on him. The corridors between shelves were surprisingly tight and foreboding. Each free-standing bookshelf, of which there were too many to count, were at least twelve shelves high and made from a solid kind of very dark wood. They were all beautifully polished to a very clear shine, but the mood seemed sombre and forbidding. Distant sounds of pages turning and students muttering reached his ears, but the sounds seemed deadened somehow, like the voices knew they weren't welcome to be heard. It seemed that with each step he took deeper into the isles, the voices were muffled until finally he heard them no more. The further he got from Hermione and Neville, the heavier the silence seemed to press on him, until Harry found himself walking slowly, trying to deaden the sound of his own footsteps. The ceiling, washed lightly in light from the distant windows, seemed a long way away.

There were no labels on any of the books, now that Harry was looking for them. He could vaguely remember his old primary school library using letters and numbers, and an electronic catalogue to organise its volumes, but nothing at all similar appeared to be happening here. And the books on the highest few shelves seemed so far away Harry could not even read them.

Turning a corning sharply, Harry stumbled into a tall, steep ladder made from the same wood as the shelves.

"Ah." He clutched his shin in misery while his mind made the connection, the ladder had little wheels for him to push it around on, and that was how students were supposed to reach the high shelves. He gave it a tentative little push, then scrambled to grab it back towards himself when the top of the ladder almost took out a gas lamp of some kind that was fixed to the end of the bookshelf.

Twenty miserable minutes later, Harry returned to Hermione and Neville's table in defeat. Despite getting lost in the shelves four times – during which time he had discovered one bookshelf that was only pretending to be there, and literally walked into what he assumed must be the Invisibility section – he had finally discovered the Defence Against the Dark Arts section. He had only detoured though the Charms, Arithmancy, Potions and History sections first. He had even managed to find himself a handy ladder, and had climbed all over the Defence Against the Dark Arts shelves, but not a single book had the word Occlumency or Legilimency in the title.

Not even a very subtle, whispered _accio_ had found him any resources.

Then, on the way back from the Defence Against the Dark Arts shelves, Harry had accidentally activated a trick bookshelf that was actually a door, which directly led to the discovery of a secret, private book nook. It was currently occupied by two seventh year Slytherins who had been otherwise enthusiastically occupied. He assumed he had rather spoiled the mood by barging in unexpectedly and they were probably scrambling for their robes while he rushed, red-faced, back to his friends. If Harry had actually been the eleven-year-old that he looked like, he would have been quite traumatised.

He settled back into his chair with a sigh. It was only after he failed to uncork his ink bottle and pick up his quill that Hermione finally looked up.

"What's wrong, Harry?" She asked, still half focused on Latin conjugations. "Did you not find what you were looking for?"

Harry sighed. "I'm starting to think it doesn't exist. Nothing on Diagon Alley had anything, they couldn't even try to order one in for me. Unless the Hogwarts library isn't as awesome as I'd been told."

Hermione's quill drifted elegantly to the table. "Nonsense. Hogwarts' library is one of the greatest in the world. _Hogwarts: A History_ says so seven times. What are you looking for? I'll find it."

"Well, I'm not sure of any titles. I just know I want a book on Occlumency and Legilimency. Preferably that has some instructions."

Hermione pursed her lips. "I don't know Harry. I haven't heard of those at all, so they must be some very advanced magics. Are you sure you should be looking at that without supervision?"

Harry, needing to cut her off before she came up with the idea of speaking to McGonagall, found himself waving her back with his arms. "Hang on, hang on. It's nothing so serious. I just heard the words used by someone and wanted to find out more about it. All I really know is that some people are naturally better at it than others; it's supposed to be quite different to Transfiguration or Potions, for example. I was just interested when I heard that some wizards can read other people's minds."

Hermione blinked at him. "Really? Mind magic? Like telepathy or clairvoyance? How curious."

Neville spoke up from beside them, surprising them both. "I'm surprised you know that much Harry, actually. You said you were raised by muggles, didn't you? But it's apparently different to what they can imagine. What you've just said is pretty much all anyone seems to know. They're both supposed to be very, very rare. I only know because I heard Uncle Algie talk about it once when he thought I wasn't listening."

There was a very arrested look on Hermione's face. "Really Neville? So this magic actually exists? Go on."

Neville shrugged. "I don't know anyone who can do it. I guess it would take a lot of discipline, but some people are supposed to be unable to learn no matter how hard they try. Maybe Dumbledore knows, if anyone does."

Hermione pushed herself up and away from the table. "You stay here then Neville, if you're happy studying. Harry, come with me. This is something I want to know about."

Harry dutifully followed her around the library, but to his dismay he soon realised that although she knew her way around libraries far better than he did, she still did not know more than he about _this_ library. She hadn't even discovered the trick bookcase yet. Perhaps she needed two or three more months.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, even Hermione stopped looking in the Defence Against the Darks Arts section, or fluffing around for a whole shelf on mind magic. She did suggest they expand their search criteria, but found nothing useful when looking for books on meditation or memory either.

"Fine," she huffed, her hair sticking up in all directions like it did when she was frazzled. "At least let us have a look at the dictionaries."

 _Modern Vernacular of the British Wizard_ , and _Wordsworth's Worthy Words (English Edition)_ both lacked anything under the topic, but finally they struck gold in _Encyclopaedia of the Esoteric_. Two entries, although brief, convinced Hermione of their existence:

 _Legilimency: the act of magically navigating through another person's mind and correctly interpreting the findings,_ and

 _Occlumency: the practice of shielding one's mind from Legilimency. See entry: Legilimency._

Closing the book gently and sliding it back into its spot, Hermione turn to Harry and spoke quietly.

"It sounds very unusual and rare Harry. I don't think the library will keep books around on these topics just anywhere, so they must be in the Restricted Section."

"Do you think –"

Hermione continued, "I don't think you should keep looking for these things Harry. Books are only put in the Restricted Section if they are very Dark or dangerous somehow. It's going to be safer for you to forget all about them."

Harry scoffed. "What, like you're going to let it go?"

His friend scowled in his general direction. "Well, it's not like I _want_ to. Magic that lets other people read my mind, indeed! It sounds terribly dangerous to me, and I definitely want to know all about it, but if Professor Dumbledore and the Hogwarts staff have put it away, they will have done it for a reason. I'm going to forget all about it. Maybe I'll bring it up with someone when I'm in seventh year, and I might find out more about it then."

This seemed quite convenient for Harry actually, so he let her go away with the assumption that he would do so too.

The only problem was that he had browsed the Restricted Section himself on more than one occasion – as well as he could – and had never seen anything that looked like what he was looking for now. But there was one easy way to check.

Saturday evening brought with it a few scattered compliments from the Weasley twins for "building worthwhile interests", and swift confirmation that there was no such book in the Restricted Section.

Sunday morning saw Harry make a casual acquaintance with Percy Weasley, who gave him some surprisingly solid advice in amongst all the pomposity.

"My best recommendation, Mr Potter," Percy said as he rested his runes Syllabary on the table top. "Is that you find a book in the Charms section called _Scholastic Success: A Literal Guide to Libraries and Literature_. If you have had a good search but still failed, all I can suggest is you learn the cataloguing and indexing support spells that Madam Pince uses. They might be a little advanced for someone with your experience with a wand, but with a few months of practice you may be able to get some use out of the charms it recommends. Eventually, you can work your way up to searching for books by keyword or theme, and finding within a book the one page with the topic you're interested in. We Prefects use these types of spell-work on a regular basis. It becomes necessary for those who are functioning at a high level of academic achievement."

Harry, who figured out the necessary spells in a few hours – it took more time to find the spells than learn them – stood bleakly once more in front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts section, but failed to retrieve a single useful volume. The only success had been the same encyclopaedia.

Finally, he took drastic action. The thought had occurred to him after Percy had hinted obliquely at it during their helpful conversation. Obviously, it was a step most students felt went too far, but since Harry's life might be literally hanging in the balance here, the same logic could not be applied to him in this case.

It was early on Sunday afternoon, and Neville was busy, Hermione thought he was borrowing the school brooms with Ron, and Ron thought he was studying in the common room with Hermione, when Harry found himself alone in the library and asking a favour of Madam Pince herself.

She eyed him beadily over the top of her spectacles as he stood nervously before her desk. Her normally stern mouth was pinched so tightly into a line that her lips disappeared. Harry forced himself to stand still, to stop fiddling and to meet her eyes without blinking as he waited for her to respond.

He waited some more.

Harry found his eyes start to water, and he had a desperate urge to say something about needing to be urgently someplace, anyplace else, but he made himself wait for her. And wait.

All the while, Madam Pince stared at him from over her spectacles like she was waiting for him to crack.

He had no idea what she was thinking.

"You are looking for a book," the stern woman finally spoke, a sour look on her face. "But you are not able to give me specific information with regards to its title or author."

"Uh…yes?" Harry admitted. Telling members of staff that he was wanting Occlumency books as a first year would most likely start a rumour. Even if the intimidating library dragon looked like she had no friends, he really wasn't willing to risk it with Voldemort on the staff.

"You are a first year, but you claim that the books in the main collection are not enough for you?"

"…Well, I suppose you could interpret…uh, yes?"

"I cannot help you. Come again."

She returned her attention to the book in front of her, and once more picked up the pottle of glue and a brush. To Harry's stunned astonishment, she went back to fixing the spine of the leather-bound book, utterly ignoring his presence.

He stood there for a while, hoping he could earn her attention, but she never looked up.

Finally, awkwardly, he shuffled backwards and turned to go. If Hermione and Madam Pince were unable to help him, there was one final person he could rely on.

"Other books?" Percy stared up at Harry from his History of Magic book in the common room in surprise. "Did the library charm book not help you?"

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry. Nothing I could use turned up."

Percy quirked an eyebrow and leaned back with a pompous sigh. "Mr Potter, I don't mean to be rude, but you have only had that book for a week. Is it possible that you are overconfident in your abilities with those charms?"

"Hrm?" Harry paused. "Oh, I think I've got the ones I used just fine. They worked when I searched for other topics, just not the one I'm looking for. I only found a couple of entries in the dictionary section, but it didn't help me any at all. Oh, and a rather sensationalist biography on Vol–, You-Know-Who, but that's obviously not what I want."

"Topics? Are you aware that searching for conceptual things such as topics are the more difficult applications of those spells? Did you not try concrete search topics such as titles or keywords first?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I tried those too, but I figured they would limit my search criteria. But nothing worked anyway, so I thought I would come to you again. You were so helpful before."

Percy, who had been looking quite indignant, settle back into his chair with an approving nod.

"At least you knew when to ask for help. I realise that Madam Pince is not the most approachable of staff, but for a promising young man like yourself –"

"I spoke to her," Harry admitted. "But she seemed to think I should get other help first."

Percy looked gobsmacked. "Madam Pince… but… Although, I _am_ a prefect…"

Harry nodded earnestly. "I knew you had a really good knowledge of the library. I simply haven't had the time to learn all of its secrets yet."

Percy levered himself out of his chair quickly. "It would be an honour to support the studies of such an ambitious young Gryffindor," he told Harry magnificently. "Allow me to escort you back to the library."

Shortly thereafter, Percy and Harry stood in the middle of the Defence section, both performing all the library charms that they knew.

"Forgive me, Mr Potter," Percy finally turned stiffly. "It appears I underestimated you. Your spells work perfectly, and not even I can locate any books on the topic you are searching for here."

Harry felt his heart sink lower, then lower in this chest. If even the Hogwarts library couldn't help him, then his next best option was Snape.

But Percy kept talking. "Follow me," he instructed, and with a rising hope Harry jumped into action. He was strangely tense and nervous as they walked past a few particularly studious students; they stared at him as the two walked by. Percy strode confidently through the room, straight past all the nooks and crannies that Harry knew, and walked directly into another trick bookcase that revealed behind it a wooden spiral staircase. Upstairs, Harry emerged on the new floor in a part of the library that he had never even dreamed existed. Another high ceiling soared high above the same huge bookcases that stood in the floor below, but here the sunlight seemed faded and old. There were no sounds in the room, of rustling pages or the whispers of quiet students. Harry's footsteps thudded dully as he stepped off the stairs.

Mouth open, neck craning, Harry stared about the room in astonishment. In seven years, he had never even heard a rumour that this room existed. He took a cautious step forward, closer to the Prefect in front of him, and found himself stepping slowly and reverently. The room was like a cathedral, and Harry felt like he had to treat it as such.

On this level, unlike the one below it, the books smelled dusty and unused. The bookshelves still gleamed, but were filled with books that were yellowed and old. Some seemed to be missing pages, or even covers. Harry was sure he spotted a book with a tea stain of some kind on the spine. He saw a library ladder like the ones downstairs, but it had two broken steps. It barely seemed like Madam Pince's library at all, yet silence sat heavy on the shelves like years of dust. There seemed to be something in the air, a weight in the atmosphere of the room that demanded reverence.

"Where are we?" He wondered, the words escaping his lips unpermitted.

"The stacks," Percy murmured humbly, to Harry's great surprise. "The greater part of the Hogwarts library collection rests in storage in this room. The old, the rare, the damaged, the irreplaceable, the unused." He stopped talking, gazing around the room himself in awe while Harry waited by his side. "The Hogwarts collection is one of the most complete in the world, but it is this floor that makes it truly magnificent." They began moving forward slowly, Harry following Percy towards what was presumably the centre of the room. The same library spells flickered out of their wands. "No old books are ever thrown away in Hogwarts," Percy continued. "But come here instead, to be stored with all the other knowledge wizard kind has gained across the centuries. You have to be careful in here –" Harry had visions of the _Monster Book of Monsters_ spawning whole nests of rabid mutant babies, until Percy completed his thought. " – since many of these books are now known to be out of date, being incorrect, or hold incomplete information.

"Madam Pince allows mature and responsible students to enter this section of the library to browse on their own _with the condition_ that they respect the books and the space. I am unaware of what she will do if any disrespect is shown here, but I know without a doubt that she will find out. Mr Potter, you seem like a promising young man and I appreciate what you are doing for my brother, but please do not abuse the privilege of coming here. It will also reflect on me."

Harry gulped and nodded.

Eventually Percy stopped walking before a huge bookshelf that seemed attached to the wall. It was glowing a soft golden colour, but no books stood out to his eye. Instead, the whole bookshelf flickered dimly.

Harry did not know what to do when the bigger boy walked up to the shelves and spread his arms out like he was going to do push ups. Percy had never seemed the type. Harry watched in bewilderment as he placed his hands flat on the shelf closest to chest height, and then _pushed down_.

To his utter astonishment, the series of shelves on the wall scrolled down like a vertical carousel. The wooden frame across the top grew larger in front of his eyes, until it split into two, and a new shelf appeared to grow in at the top. His mouth dropped open. Had Hermione known that the library bookshelves could do this? Percy scrolled through them, more shelves appearing at the top and disappearing down the bottom until he slowed the movement and stepped back to allow Harry to approach. Eying Percy warily, Harry stepped past and looked at the shelf he displayed.

Very shortly Harry's face broke out into a wide smile. There it was, right in front of him. A leather-bound book about three-inches wide across the spine. Gold embossed script, _Defend Thyself,_ was plastered across the cover of the book and Harry picked up the hefty volume with heavy excitement.

Fingers trembling, forgetting Percy's presence in his amazement, Harry flipped through it with wondering delight.

A small cloud of dust puffed up when he cracked the spine, apparently it had not been opened for some time.

"I, I, I'll take it," Harry stammered out.

"Indeed," the Gryffindor prefect replied, benevolently watching over Harry's academic joy. "I can see that you are intending to look through it now. I will leave you to your studies in peace." Awkwardly, Percy patted Harry's shoulder once before he turned to go. "You have a good touch with the cataloguing charm. You would be welcome to visit this floor again, just don't spread the information around. Your presence here does reflect on me, after all. I wish you the best in your endeavours."

His nose already buried in the book, Harry didn't both listening as Percy's steps faded away. Instead, he sank gratefully into a slouch on the floor: Why waste time taking the book downstairs, when he could read it here? His fingers trembled as they turned the pages.

It took Harry a solid hour of reading, ignoring the crick in his neck and the tickle in the back of his nose, before the realisation sank in that the book was not going to be helpful at all. The understanding settled in his stomach like one of Hagrid's rock cakes. He left the room in despair.


	11. Quirrell to the Rescue

If his continuing failure to learn Occlumency had not been hanging over Harry's head like a bad cloud, he might have said that the next week started well; the standard classes were as successful as Harry had hoped. There were only two things that caught his attention: Snape seemed to grow surlier and surlier every time Harry correctly answered a question – and there were more of them than he remembered, and Professor Quirrell seemed strangely fascinated by Harry's abilities in class.

Having long suspected that he would be unable to protect his mind from Legilimency by the beginning of the year, Harry had convinced his friends to take over the very back row of desks in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Furthermore, Harry resisted catching attention from the professor by remaining hunched over his textbook constantly, barely ever looking up, never volunteering himself to answer a question.

Obviously in hindsight, Quirrell was curious about Harry – as many people seemed to be. Harry's attempts to remain unnoticed were doomed to failure. Harry's only protection was to avoid eye-contact, and to Hermione's utter confusion, Harry's answers were mono-syllabic and his attention evasive when he was called on.

"Mr P-p-potter," the frustrating teacher managed to catch Harry's attention. "K-k-kindly describe to the class – the class what function the _f-f-fumos_ spell might perform."

Harry straightened a little bit in his seat and raised his eye towards Quirrell's left shoulder. "Creating smoke would block your enemies view, sir," he mumbled. He ignored Hermione's low hiss as continued, purposely disinterested. "I guess it might work against the user though too."

"P-p-precisely," the turbaned man stuttered. "Take- take- take f-f-five points, Mr P-potter. What a k-keen insight."

Harry ducked his head as if he was embarrassed and returned his gaze to his notes.

"And- and- and so, Mr P-Potter," Quirrell continued. "W-what kind of s-s-situation would c-call for such a spell?"

Harry shrugged and shifted his gaze to his quill, the feathery tip spinning idly in his fiddling fingers. "If I knew the area well, sir? If I wanted to sneak away?"

"Five more p-p-points," the irritating man continued.

Double-checking that the man wasn't going to pick on Harry for a few more minutes, he tuned himself out. Thankfully safe from Voldemort's Legilimency for a few more minutes, Harry allowed himself to wonder if the spirit ever contributed to the stuttering professor's lesson plans. Although, Quirrell had a gift for trolls, Harry didn't see Voldemort…

Trolls. Something tickled the back of Harry's mind, an old memory called his attention, and Harry frowned as he struggled to recall the thought. Occlumency would apparently help with memory recall, Harry remembered. He wished he could enjoy that benefit.

He remained focused on the thought, even when Quirrell called for practical spell casting, even when Neville asked Harry to go first, when Hermione hissed at him to pay attention.

It was precisely when Harry twitched his wand, incidentally creating the first successful smoke spell of the period, that Harry remembered the dancing trolls outside the Room of Requirement.

The surrounding fuss of the students, and more points awarded to Gryffindor, quite panicked Harry. Especially considering he immediately wanted to dash up to the seventh floor – without having his mind read. Class seemed indefinitely long from that point, and finally, just when the professor ended the lesson and the students began to pack up and leave, Harry got called back.

"Mr Pot-Pot-Potter," Quirrell managed to get out while Harry's fellow Gryffindor's packed up and vacated the Defence Against the Dark Arts room around them, "Y-you s-s-seem to have a g-good g-g-g-, g-good g-g-grasp of your spell work. W-what do you s-s-say?"

"Uh," Harry immediately responded, flustered. He had been trying to stay unnoticed, but something had clearly gone wrong. And he had no Occlumency defences either! Harry frantically tried to remember everything he had ever been taught about protecting his mind, while keeping a mildly confused look on his face. "Thanks, professor. I'll keep working hard."

Quirrell gave him a searching look, and Harry quickly focused on the clasp of Quirrell's cloak. It was grey. From the sounds of the classroom, Harry realised that everyone else was rapidly vacating the room, excepting Parvati Patil who seemed to have lost something under her desk, and Ron, Neville and Hermione, who hovered around the door waiting for him.

"Wait up guys!" Harry called, inching awkwardly away from the possessed professor. "Ah…I mean…was that all, sir? Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude…"

"R-r-run along, Mr Potter," Quirrell stammered out, and Harry held back a sigh. Now Voldemort was under the impression that Harry was a very gifted wizard – if shy – certainly different to the utterly average impression he had given before.

Harry moved towards his friends at door, Ron mumbling under his breath as he did so, and joined them with a preoccupied air. Should Harry have more focus in class? Or less?

Or would the sudden change in his school work seem more suspicious? Hermione pattered on her congratulations at catching the teacher's attention, curiously wondering why Harry's successes in class were so great despite his inappropriate attitude.

He didn't even notice what he told her, as Harry and his friends pattered down the huge stone corridors.

One more problem to navigate. One more thing to keep in mind.

It was only after dinner that night that Harry managed to find time to sneak away from his friends. Pacing along the corridors that lead to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, Harry was hopeful that he would catch no one's attention tonight of all nights.

Then, wrinkling his brow, Harry paused before the tapestry before creating a firm picture in his mind and pacing in front of the door to the Room. Opening the heavy door with his heart in his mouth, Harry peeked inside.

Incredibly, unbelievably, after all his frustration, inside a medium-sized room, on a podium of stone stood one single, small book.

With hands that shook with anticipation and hesitation, Harry reached out to pick it up.

Appropriately titled _Magicks of the Mind_ , the skinny, floppy paperback gleamed like a treasure in his eyes. Possibly the only book even written to address Occlumency, Harry wondered at the circumstances of its creation, that not even Dumbledore or Snape had ever owned it. He gazed at the yellowing cover with ill-disguised anticipation.

Dispelling the cover of dust with a wave of his hand, Harry immediately realised why it was unpopular. The book was printed in an old style of font, and the ink was slightly faded with age, even though it was unmarked or rumpled. Most books were printed with Everlasting Ink, to the best of Harry's knowledge, so it must be either very old, or very cheaply made.

The text size was small too, and even in the clear, clean light of the Room, Harry had to peer closely to read the indistinct words, which brought the old, dank smell of aged parchment clearly to his nose.

He waved a hand to clear the air, the smell of age and mildew was unpleasant. He brought it closer to his face.

Additionally, Harry found – a point that would have Hermione fuming with frustration – there were no index, no page numbers, no chapter titles or headings at all, just a long, dense essay that squeezed onto the pages like someone had transcribed the words of an expert drugged up on Babbling Beverage.

Harry hated it at once.

But, it would certainly help him fulfil the single most urgent need he had. Harry immediately snuck it back in to his dorm.

There were many dangers to messing with the mind, Harry discovered that night as he read in the privacy of his drawn canopy curtains. And many ways to injure himself and others. Successful memory charms, potions, curses, and hexes could drive someone to insanity. Unsuccessful spells, or spells gone wrong, had even more potential for disaster.

He found the part of the book where it talked about specifics. The brain, it seemed, was a flexible instrument. Minor damage was naturally healed over time, perhaps a little excitability or eccentricity might remain, a paranoia for certain sounds or phenomena, but a wizard's mind could deal with that on its own. Harry thought of Luna and her father. Were they gifted? Or damaged?

Major damage needed a Healer to heal things right, or the mind could be twisted like a pretzel and never straighten out. And whole gaps in knowledge and personality might eventually be overwritten, but rarely recovered. Harry compared what he knew between poor old Bertha Jorkins, and the dodgy memory charm that Sirius told him had changed her personality (before torture broke her mind, and brought the memory back), and Gilderoy Lockhart, who had reverted to a form of permanent childhood and generally deserved it.

Harry soldiered on.

Finally, after over an hour of squinted eyes and a headache later, Occlumency itself! Involves clearing the mind, creating perspective on the thoughts a wizard wants hidden!

He blinked in surprise. He had been sure that Snape had been a horrible teacher, but perhaps it really was officially that simple.

On second thoughts, Snape was definitely a horrible teacher. Never mind.

More accurately, the book went on, it involved disciplining the mind, knowing it inside out, manipulating it as a space both real and imaginary.

Parchment and ink bottles spread out on his pillows, Harry carefully took notes with his colour-coded inks. _Clear mind. Discipline. Familiarity. Real. Imaginary._

Harry pondered that for a while, before he remembered what it reminded him of. That clear, clean Kings Cross Station where he had gone when he halfway died. Hadn't Dumbledore himself said that was both real, and imaginary? And hadn't Harry manipulated that for his own purposes?

For the first time, Harry began to believe in the possibility of his success.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the inside of his brain.

There was no success that night, but now he had a guide, it was only a matter of incentive, stubbornness, and time.

A few days later the first-year Gryffindors were walking down to the Quidditch pitch for their very first flying lesson. His mind was once more properly taking in events, but a low rumble of worry and concern kept Harry's face curled up in a slight, painful scowl.

Hermione was a mess. She had read all of the books in the school library about flying, but found them significantly lacking in practical applications. Neville seemed, in Harry's opinion, even worse. The story made its way out of his clenched teeth during their walk to the pitch. After an epic mistake on his Grandmother's grand staircase, involving a sock, a handrail, a tulip, a broken armoire and a squashed Kneazle, his family had banned him from most forms of exercise. It explained his slightly chubby frame, Harry thought to himself, but clearly hadn't done the boy any favours in the long run.

Ron's uninhibited excitement was certainly not helping things either. He pattered along next to Harry at first, babbling happily about the Chudley Cannon's greatest weapons.

"Gilbrid MacBane has the best broom handling skills on the whole team," Ron enthused to a patiently listening Harry. "Although it's true he did give up twelve penalties last season for blurting alone, just think of the manoeuvrability and control you need to match, contact and hold another player's broomstick! I've been working on my grip for months! Do you think they'll let us try any evasive moves during class? What do you reckon they'll do about accidental contact with other broomsticks? Blimey, I wonder if there are enough in the class for a pick-up game? Have you ever played with real bludgers, Harry?"

Neville and Hermione may have made little whimpering noises in the back of their throats. Harry wasn't quite sure what he'd heard, but it was enough to catch Ron's attention. The red-head fell back to walk between the other two, relishing his moment as the expert in the field.

"Oh, don't you worry about flying!" He assured the new fliers. "Just remember, grip with your hands, and your knees. Duck anything coming towards you quickly to avoid broken ribs and whatnot – but do remember that leaning forward can make you accelerate or descend – or both, depending on how you do it – so be careful not to force yourself into an accidental dive. I saw Bertram Fargher – he's a Chudley chaser, you know – forced into an uncontrolled dive a few years back, and I never saw someone's nose bleed that much while they were unconscious. I always thought that would slow the blood down somehow, wouldn't you think? But they fixed him up alright again after only a week, and they say his neck was almost as good as new! And keep your centre of gravity – that's most of your weight, Neville – keep your centre of gravity directly above the actual broom at all times, unless you're steering, in which case obviously that's a bad idea. Any questions?"

Harry winced. Hermione opened her mouth. She closed it again.

"You'll be fine," Ron ruffled their hair with all the assurance of an eleven-year-old expert. "It's a breeze. Hey, I bet we can get used to the school brooms really fast – even Bill says they're pretty old and…what was the word he used? Oh, quirky, he said – and totally trounce the Slytherins. Is it true they're taking the class with us, Harry?"

"Mmmm," said Harry, noncommittally. "Well, let's just start slow at first, and work our way up."

He picked up the pace, but Ron managed to keep up a running commentary all way down to the quidditch pitch.

They arrived at grounds at the same time as the Slytherin cohort he was familiar with, and the twelve of them stood in awkward silence as the rest of the class slowly filled in. It was a sunny day, although the wind was fresh and cold.

Ron kept up his cheerful chatter, enthusiastic and at ease in his excitement. Neville stood still stiffly, batting his fluttering robes down when the wind caught them. Hermione had a similar problem with her hair, which was windswept and kept getting in her eyes and mouth.

Harry kept himself busy by walking down the first row of broomsticks. Every now and then he'd stop, and crouch down.

He reached out his hand to heft a broomstick in his hand. The wood was good and solid. It had a decent grip. It had good balance, the front not too light or heavy. He placed it gently on his upturned palm, where it promptly listed left, and, after a moment, rolled upside down.

He put it down.

Harry stood up, stepped further down the row, and picked up another likely candidate.

Before he knew it, Madam Hooch had arrived and was calling the class to attention. He thought he caught her yellow eyes glancing at him in approval, before she barked out to the class,

"Well, what are you all waiting for? Everyone should find themselves a broomstick. Hurry up!"

Harry waved his friends down to stand by him.

"Here," he pulled Neville by the wrist and dragged him next to a decent looking broomstick. "This one's solid. It'll be slow, but steady. And you," he turned, and caught Hermione by the shoulders, manoeuvring her to another likely candidate to his left. "This one will suit you. It'll drag a little when you tell it what to do, but it won't shake if you get too high, and it flies straight."

Ron helped himself to his own choice, and Harry left him to it. He himself picked a rather beaten looking thing to stand next to. The bristles were broken, or missing, on one side, and it would drift like nobody's business if he wasn't careful, but it would be fast if he controlled it right.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch called from the front of the class, "and say, 'Up!'"

"UP!" the class called, and Harry's broom leaped straight into his hand. Ron stood proudly a little distance away, but Hermione and Neville had not had any luck.

Harry leaned their way and whispered, "Think of them as old dogs that don't really want to leave their bed. Once you've caught their attention though, they'll perk up."

"Up," Hermione frowned down, and her broomstick twitched, then laboured up steadily into fit into her palm. With her encouragement, Neville tried again. On his third try, he got lucky, and Harry smiled at his beam of pride.

Madam Hooch walked them swiftly through the steps: how to mount, how to hold the handle, and how to kick off.

"Alright," she commanded. "Kick off from the ground, hard, when I blow the – boy, what are you doing?"

Heart sinking, Harry snapped around.

Neville's broomstick was rising steadily into the air. Harry could see at once what had gone wrong. The instruction could have been better, that was Madam Hooch's fault, but Neville's nerves had gotten his legs twitchy, and the kick had clearly been excessive. Neville's centre of gravity was already tilted slightly to the left. He could see the tension in Neville's shoulders, any second now the boy would clutch the handle to his chest to regain balance.

Harry's Seeker reflexes kicked in. His arm shot up rapidly just as Neville's ankle passed his shoulder. He didn't bother aiming for the frame – it was higher, and smaller, and might have lifted him up as well if his luck was bad. He grabbed the tail bristles by the fistful.

In hindsight, that could have had only one outcome. The broom tilted, its back end caught tight. Neville grappled with the handle, dragging it up as he tried not to slip back. The broom slowed, then began humming with power as his body grew closer to the frame, and his grip tightened. Neville wailed in panic as he lost his grip, and slid backwards off his broom, crumpling inelegantly to the ground, missing Harry only because of his quick jerk back.

The broom rocketed straight up into the air vertically for twenty or so metres, before it lost energy and stalled in the air, hovering at its peak, before plummeting down to impale the dirt, just centimetres away from Neville's left hand.

"Mr Longbottom," Madam Hooch snapped, stalking over to the pair. "What _were_ you thinking? A broomstick kick-off such as that is best reserved for the experienced rider. Acceleration like that can be a dangerous thing for the amateur."

The Slytherin cohort sniggered.

Madam Hooch glared at the class. "I will have you all taking safety seriously in this class. Five points to Gryffindor, Mr Potter, for fast thinking. Up you get, Mr Longbottom. Now what's wrong?"

A shaken, pale Neville cradled his wrist to his chest, and looked pitiful. Madam Hooch sighed.

"And this is why the instructions were to go slowly. It looks like you need a visit to the Hospital Wing. Do you know where to go?"

Neville shook his head. Madam Hooch looked around at the rest of the first years, but their inexperience with the castle was blindingly obvious. Harry wondered if he should put himself forward, plans be damned, but he was too slow.

"Alright then, none of you is to move while I walk this boy to the Hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'. Come along dear." And she started leading Neville away.

No sooner were they out of earshot, but the Slytherin students stopped trying to hold in their laughter.

"Did you see his face, the stupid fatso?" Malfoy burst out. "Only Longbottom would be able to injure himself by falling to the ground from five feet."

Even Harry had to admit that it was unlikely. He held his tongue and the insults kept coming.

The Gryffindor students shifted their weight uneasily, but stayed silent until Malfoy went a little too far.

"And did you hear that whimper? Waaaaah!" Malfoy tossed his head around and flailed his arms. "Ooooh help, I'm five feet of the ground and I'm scared! I'm a big brave Gryffindor!"

The Slytherins giggled.

Ron took an angry step forward.

"Malfoy," Harry said loudly instead, and the attention shifted to him. "You don't seem to know what a Gryffindor is." He frantically willed good words to come to him. He hadn't prepared for this, he thought his actions would have taken care of the problem. "Courage is not the absence of fear, but feeling the fear and doing it anyway."

"Oh," smirked Malfoy, "so Gryffindors are scared of a little height?"

The Slytherin students standing on Malfoys side of the class grinned and whispered.

"That's not quite what I said," Harry ran his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up every which way as though the hair gunk – still used daily – didn't exist. "Gryffindors don't let a little thing like fear stop them from doing stuff." Hermione and Ron stepped up and nodded strongly.

"Well, that's…"

Pansy Parkinson entered the fray on Malfoy's behalf. "Everyone knows that Gryffindors have no survival instincts. You'd have to be stupid to run towards danger."

A commotion from Harry's side.

Violent memories forced their way to the front of Harry's mind. "Even Slytherins stand their ground bravely for things that matter to them!"

"Slytherins are brainy, not brawny!"

"Surely even you know that choosing your battles means you still go to battle," Harry snapped back.

There was a confused muttering from both sides of the class, and Harry realised that he was getting too deep for the actual first years.

"Yeah, well," Parkinson managed, "Your parents chose to go to battle and look where they ended up."

A disapproving growl rose from all of the Gryffindor students, and even a few Slytherins hissed in warning. Ron bristled beside him.

The cheerfully snapping breeze seemed out of place as the mood froze. Parkinson paled as she realised she had gone too far.

"So…" Harry managed slowly, "You admit that by going to battle, my parents were fighting against people on the opposite side? Who were also going to battle?"

Harry realised he had to a deflate the tension before someone said something he couldn't control.

"I guess we're getting a bit too personal now." He broke the tension with a short sigh, and a ruffle of his hair. All around him Harry heard confused murmurings and rustling. "We should make this official then," he stated, and stepped forward confidently. Malfoy at the front jerked back in surprise, and then drew himself up, looking furious that he had betrayed his own weakness. Slytherin drew closer together. Harry wondered if some of his housemates behind him were drawing their wands. The onlooking crowd was silent and watchful, all of the first years seemed confused by what was going on.

"Malfoy, I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance before," Harry offered, his right hand outstretched and inviting.

Malfoy looked at him blankly for a moment.

When it looked like the Slytherin was going to reject his advances, Harry spoke to Ron out of the corner of his mouth, secure in his knowledge of Malfoy's pride. "Ron? Do wizards not do this? Have I mortally offended him somehow? Is he not going to introduce me to his friends?"

His face still a highly-controlled mask, Harry delighted inside at the confusion he was causing his classmate with his tone and actions.

Seeing Ron about to reply, Malfoy blushed a beautiful shade of pink and stepped forward with pride.

"A Malfoy always does what's right. Potter. May I have the pleasure of introducing you to Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass – shuffle back people – Tracey Davis and Alice Runcorn. People, Harry Potter."

The Slytherins filed past Harry as they were introduced, and shook hands, a solemn tableau of eleven-year-olds acting with gravity and decorum.

"Thanks," Harry offered, then nodded at Pansy and Malfoy in turn. "Pleasure to meet you all. I'd be happy to talk about this a bit more sometime, perhaps when we know each other a bit better. And maybe sometime you could teach me more about these wizarding greetings and other important things? I know I have a lot to learn."

"You've asked the right man," Malfoy replied with a pompous air. "I know everything you need."

Both sides of the class separated for a bit, confused and uncertain as to what they had just seen. Harry, standing awkwardly in the middle of the two groups, wandered back over to the broomstick he had dropped, and busied himself tidying the bristles. No one else spoke, silently watching him fiddle with the tail twigs. Harry felt the back of his neck turn red. Even Ron and Hermione looked at him and whispered.

Perhaps he hadn't been quite as subtle as he intended. He jerked a stubborn twig in frustration. He'd never been good at talking about deep things. It all made sense in his head, but he rather suspected he'd misjudged his audience somehow.

They were still standing like that when Professor McGonagall came out in a flap. She clapped her hands twice.

"Alright class. I'll be taking over your supervision until Madam Hooch gets back from the Hospital Wing. Harry swore he heard her mutter, "Don't know what she was thinking, leaving this mix together," but no one else seemed to think so.

Thus the lesson continued with some basic drills. Harry stayed hovering reassuringly next to Hermione the whole time. Slowly, he was proud to notice, her death grip on the broom handle relaxed and she seemed to start unwinding.

The Slytherins kept giving him strange looks out of the corner of their eyes. Not just Malfoy either, it was all of them. Harry couldn't work out what his mistake had been, but their eyes made him feel twitchy.

Finally, finally, McGonagall gave them ten minutes to fly freely.

Harry had intended to fly like a maniac through the rest of the class to catch Professor McGonagall's attention; his place on the team had been one of his first true points of pride, thank you very much! But once free in the air he found it easy to get swept up in the excitement of being back on the broomstick. Before he knew it, he was swooping and diving in delight. Perhaps he wouldn't have attracted as much attention if he hadn't made such a spectacle of himself in front of the Slytherins, but the whole class seemed to hold back and watch him. Harry and Ron chased each other around Hermione, who scolded them until she got dizzy.

Up, down, around and tag – run away!

Harry was content to brush off his goals and be free for a moment. The wind rushed through his hair, Ron was laughing, he was laughing. The sun was shining, it was a good day. The Seeker thing would happen when it happened. He dashed away from Ron with a laugh, and circled higher and higher, always staying just out of Ron's impatient reach.

Then he heard a little whimper.

"Harryyy…" Hermione gasped, "Harry!" She found herself unsteady on her broomstick from watching the two circle above her. She was trying to descend, but her seating had slipped and she was sinking too fast. In a snap, Harry checked his broom and dove toward her, his hand unerringly grabbing her broom handle and guiding her down to the ground. Hermione gasped in relief as he took control of her broom, and clenched one hand tightly into his nearest shoulder.

Harry figured he would have a bruise there tomorrow.

Ron hovered worriedly beside them.

All three of them were totally focussed on getting Hermione safely to the ground.

So Harry was honestly surprised when the next moment McGonagall was standing over them, her conversation with Madam Hooch forgotten and a strange light in her gaze as she measured him with her eyes.

"Mr Potter, five points to Gryffindor for your quick reactions, and follow me quick smart, if you would."

Harry jogged off behind her, leaving a strange tableau of watchful first years behind him, and was supremely unsurprised when the Professor led him straight towards the fifth year Charms class.

Later that day at dinner, Neville was admiring, Ron jealous and Hermione concerned at the influence it might have on his studies when he told them he had just been made the youngest seeker at Hogwarts in a century.

His broom arrived at the breakfast table a few days later.

Malfoy, it appeared, was temporarily content to watch Harry curiously from a distance. After spending a few days frustrated by the itch between his shoulder-blades, Harry accepted the state of affairs.

Thus, aside from a few unexpected events and settling in niggles, Harry's reintroduction to Hogwarts was generally incident-free, and the days soon merged into a pattern of familiar repetition.

Harry finally noticed what was slowly going wrong as the days turned into weeks and he faced familiar lessons for a second time.

He was bored.

He had thrown himself into his studies, writing essays for school and homework, and submerging himself in the pursuit of knowledge for his own purposes. Harry's knowledge of charms and transfiguration and defence had grown. His understanding of magical theory had increased accidentally, despite him holding no intentions of the kind. Spurred on by Quirrell's watchful presence, Harry had even dived into Occlumency training with full enthusiasm, but all except the most basic aspects of that skill continued to elude him.

Harry concentrated furiously in his attempts to empty his mind of thought, but his own steadily approaching deadlines and ever-increasing to-do list obstructed his progress. Passed a certain point, it was difficult for him to advance in his practical skills.

Harry's school work rapidly became a distraction to what was truly important. His homework essays fluctuated slightly in quality, as his personal philosophies changed daily: should he master all the first year magics before building on his knowledge? Or should he assume that he knew them well enough, and spend his time elsewhere?

He spent less time studying, and more time staring into space.

He was frustrated. He was bored. He wanted to go outside, and move his body, and do something exhausting.

"What's wrong?" Hermione whispered to him one day as the three sat in the library. "Ron's with Dean and Seamus, if its him you're worried about."

"Nah," Harry murmured back, "I knew that."

She peered over at him more closely. "Are you stuck on something? Do you want me to have a look?"

"Nah," he repeated. "I think I've got what it means."

His friend returned to her work quietly, while he stated out the window, but she looked up after a few minutes when his quill remained still.

"Are you tired?" she enquired, and Harry shook his head. "What's the problem?"

He looked at her a moment, and she straightened, and put down her quill.

"Alright, Harry. This isn't like you. What's going on?"

Next to her, Neville looked up, and then joined her in staring at Harry curiously.

Harry sighed. It appeared he'd have to lie, or be mean. He really didn't want to have to do that more than he did; Harry's conversations with his friends veered wildly between casual and relaxed, and highly managed and manipulative since he was attempting to recreate their previous relationships. He was no longer actually eleven, after all.

"I just…" he stuttered to a stop, frustrated. "Do you ever wonder, what's the point of it all?"

Neville glanced at Hermione, who tilted her head.

"I think you mean something less obvious than what I think," she suggested. "There's lots of reasons for homework, and for practicing magic, as I think you probably know."

She wasn't wrong.

"It's more like…" he struggled, "…what's the point of learning the differences between Pasiphae and Pasithee, and their orbits around Jupiter? When am I ever going to use this stuff? I get wand work, the charms and transfigurations and spells and enchantments, I get hexes and counter-hexes and curses and jinxes. I understand why I might need to start up a stove, or burn off a Devil's Snare. But why do they make us draw star charts and sky maps? Or write essays in potions, instead of practicing? Or make pineapples dance. Where's the use?"

"Well," Hermione started, looking a little worried at his outburst, "There are…lots of skills that we might learn in the future could depend on things we learn now. For instance…I heard an older student say that Professor Flitwick teaches us to make tap-dancing fruit, because it teaches us a delicate touch on the wand that is necessary for O.W.L spells. Something about learning different spell rhythms, I think."

"Eh?" asked Harry, his attention arrested. "Spells have rhythms? I never knew about that." He paused. "Sorry. Never mind." He waved one hand her way. "You were saying?"

Hermione picked up her train of thought. "And, and there are dangers in potions that we need to be aware of, when to use them, when not to use them, how they might interact. Is…is that what you mean?"

Harry shook his head.

"I know all that. But no one is going to use _all_ of this stuff. Why can't I just do the bits that I'll need, and leave out the rest?"

His goal had been niggling at the back of his brain. Why study astronomy, when Voldemort probably knew every curse uttered in England? Why potions, when Gringotts would defend the Lestrange vault with the Thief's Downfall that could remove all illusion charms and concealment?

"So you know what you want to do with your life then, Harry?" Neville's quiet voice brought him back to the present.

"Well, broadly," replied Harry, shrugging. Kill Horcruxes, destroy Voldemort. Be an Auror, most likely, if he survived again.

There was a brief moment of silence.

"Pasiphae is a goddess of sex and herbology," Neville suddenly said, startling Harry badly. "When Pasiphae is aligned with Orthosie in season, that's the best time to harvest Mucuna Pruriens seeds to be used in a number of fertility potions, and they're occasionally used in rituals held during the New Moon."

"Huh?" Harry asked blankly, and Hermione stared at Neville in surprise.

"When Pasiphae is aligned with Metis instead, that's the time to perform a ritual of blessing on certain types of tree groves instead, especially if you want them to grow sturdy trunks and branches, instead of foliage."

"So," Harry clarified, "these little details that look really unimportant actually change people's actions?"

"I guess so," Neville mumbled, rubbing his neck at the attention. "You'd probably have to be a professional to follow through on them though; grow potion ingredients or that sort of thing."

Hermione interrupted. "How in the world did you know that, Neville? I've read tons about Jupiter's moons, and even gone into the mythology behind them, but none of the books talk about that!"

He ducked his head. "I've looked into Herbology a little bit. I'm allowed to potter around in the greenhouse at home. Can't break too much there, Gran says."

"Wow," Hermione declared. "I hope your Gran appreciates you." She looked a little askance as Neville sat in silence, then returned her gaze to Harry.

"So, does that help you out any?"

"I guess so," he admitted ruefully. "I'll look more into the practical applications of our homework from now on. See if I can apply it to me."

Hermione nodded once in satisfaction and returned to her own work.

Harry thought over the conversation. Perhaps racing ahead for obscure knowledge wasn't his only choice. Digging a little deeper into all of his homework might point him to applications in his own life. Defence was obviously useful, but maybe he could find more ways he could fight back against Voldemort elsewhere.

A little reassured, he decided that a little more focus on the basics wouldn't be a waste of his time.

His frustration with the pace of his schoolwork fell away, and he reapplied himself to the first-year work.

"If you want," Hermione offered before they all got too focussed on their work again, "I can recommend a couple of books to you. I've found this wonderful Charms book called _Scholastic Success_ which might help you use the library better."

Harry recognised the title. "Awesome. I'll look into that, thanks Hermione."

She went back to work with a little smile on her face.

Time continued to pass, and the surprisingly insightful conversation aside, Harry was beginning to realise that the way his friends viewed him was changing. Sure, Ron liked to mess around with him in their dorm and common room. Sure, Hermione got a deep satisfaction out of studying with him. Sure, all three combined their efforts to help Neville in his classes, slowly but steadily building up his confidence.

But they did not see Harry as simply a friend and equal. Hermione admired Harry's depth of knowledge, and, competing aside, came to him for suggestions when her research reached dead ends. Despite his jealousy over Harry's fame and Quidditch skills, Ron defended Harry's special circumstances to their sometimes-jealous dorm mates by pointing out how generous and hardworking the green-eyed boy was. And Neville appeared to be slowly moulding his personality on Harry's, in some kind of earnest admiration.

Skulking Draco Malfoy appeared to be considering Harry's throwaway comments with a certain weight. The blond was often found in Harry's vicinity, throwing up alternating taunts and advice, before retreating to consider Harry's reactions.

Fortunately for Harry's state of mind, Professor Snape was treating Harry as he always had. Harry made sure to avoid his eyes, kept his hair slick, did all his pre-class readings and then some, and remembered the man's death and kept his temper. Consequently, his classwork was satisfactorily and he seemed to be a good influence on the Gryffindors. Even the vaunted Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry seemed strangely lacking in vitriol during class time, due to Harry's calming influence on the Gryffindors. Somewhat surprisingly, Snape seemed to appreciate nothing of that, and snarled and sneered at Harry with all the disgust and bitterness he ever had. In fact, Harry noticed to his bemused surprise, Snape seemed to have travelled straight over hating Harry, jumping directing into despising, hating and abhorring him.

Snape had stopped calling on Harry in class, apparently upset that Harry always got all of the answers correct. Instead he took great delight in punishing Harry for the things he couldn't help: breathing too loudly, being too slow to light up his cauldron flame, taking up too much space with his elbows. The first time he lost points for mangling his slug slices, Harry felt a gentle shock of surprised nostalgia. The sensation was so familiar – and Harry so unused to being in a first-year class again – that the blatant bullying he received slid off him like water from a duck's back. He made sure that his ingredients were positively perfectly prepared from then on, and utterly missed how infuriated it made the vindictive potions master.

Overall, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were beyond pleased, as Harry appeared to fit into Hogwarts like a hand to a glove.

The occasional sudden headache reassured Harry that he had Quirrell exactly where he wanted him.

So the first term flew by with ease, and frustrating study notwithstanding, Harry relaxed into the familiar lifestyle, secure in the knowledge that he had achieved what he needed to for now.


	12. Dreams of Hope and Despair

Next was the waiting game.

Having come straight from a warfront, and landing in a stressed panic, Harry had micromanaged his life to make it to this point in Hogwarts. Now that the emergency planning had succeeded, the studying…happening, if not exciting him, Harry's mind calmed, and buried problems began bubbling up.

Harry woke one night screaming, throat throbbing and mind reeling from a nightmare. His roommates were shocked from their innocent sleep by his panicked voice wearing itself hoarse. Ron shook him awake, wide-eyed and worried, and Neville ran for a Prefect, leaving Harry to wake up gasping and sweating in fright.

Harry blinked his eyes free of sleep, and glanced around at the boys beside his bed in the open canopy. Three bloodless faces were staring at him in concern.

After a moment, where they all stared silently at each other, Harry followed Ron's particularly focused gaze down to Harry's hand, and the room settled into a deeper quiet as Harry and his onlookers realized that he had drawn his wand on Ron as he had been shaken awake.

Harry blushed, and twitched his wand away.

"Er...mate," was Ron's only comment, as the threatening weapon finally moved away from the point between his eyes.

The silence was broken only by the pattering of feet, as Neville lead a troubled Prefect into the room.

"Mr Potter," the older boy said. "What's going on here?"

The Prefect's practical manner and Harry's sudden awkwardness broke the tension in the room, and everyone present drew a sudden breath of air.

Harry mumbled his response.

"Really sorry, guys," he began, "I didn't mean to wake you. It was just a nightmare."

Despite a few pointed questions from the seventh year Prefect, Harry refused to give any details, and after a muffled conversation between Neville and the older boy, the Prefect came to his own conclusion, clucked his tongue and left to return for bed, merely warning Harry to speak to Madam Pomfrey tomorrow.

As Harry watched his roommates silently, he saw the same realization spread to the other boys one by one. They were assuming that he had dreamed of his parent's death, and were respecting his privacy the only way they knew how.

Harry mumbled another apology, and watched them all returning to bed. He had no choice but to allow them their misconception.

The truth of the matter was, instead of his parent's death, Harry had been reliving his more recent memories as a seventeen-year-old. He had been struggling with Voldemort in the castle. Contrary to actual events, the dream had shown him the dark wizard inside the school itself, personally torturing and killing his closest friends while Harry could only passively wait his turn.

He lay quietly back in his bed, listening as first Ron, and then the others began to breathe the deep, slow rhythms of sleep.

It was only after the room relaxed into slumber that Harry relaxed his muscles, and, with an undignified scramble, managed his way to the nearest bathroom, where he promptly emptied his stomach.

Harry dry-heaved one final time, before wiping the acid bile from his lips. He then _scourgified_ the mess up, washed his mouth out, and carefully returned, trembling, to bed.

His mind was frantically processing the problem.

His thoughts revealed to him the complexities of his unforeseen problem. For years, Harry had been stressed, worried, fearful and anxious. For the first time that he could remember, he had felt safe and at peace – even, dare he say it, in control – and so his mind had begun to bring forth all of his horrible memories in order to finally lay them to rest.

Perhaps using his memories to motivate himself to study wasn't the best of ideas?

He realised with a jolt that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress. The seventeen-year-old Hermione would have been thrilled that Harry's mind felt safe enough to begin to process the awful things he had experienced, but Harry himself was unimpressed. He had been trying to fit in, as best he could, and enjoy the calm before the storm. Now his own mind was going to keep him disturbed.

Harry cast a wordless silencing charm, but lay awake a while before finally returning to sleep.

The next morning, it was clear that a rumour had started spreading, based on the glances that he received over breakfast, but no one approached him. Harry was somewhat surprised that Hermione in particular held her tongue, but noticed that Neville remained close to her all day, apparently asking for homework help every time she began to speak with Harry with a particular type of focus.

Harry realised that he should have expected Neville's thoughtfulness, and appreciated the effort he made.

He was careful to visit the school nurse immediately after breakfast, and was grudgingly accepting when she bullied him into taking a calming potion under her watchful eye.

"Night terrors?" Madam Pomfrey mused, after he had approached her. "Is this the first time you've had them?"

Harry was still for a moment, as his mind tried to calculate the appropriate response.

"Ah," he finally responded. "It's not the first time, but it doesn't happen often."

"Hrmm." Madam Pomfrey was clearly curious, but Harry did his best to baffle her enquires, having no desire to reveal to her the truth of his situation.

"Are you homesick perhaps? There's no shame in it, we always get a few first years up here around this time of year."

Harry couldn't help his little snort of amusement. "Goodness no."

The matron raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Then how do you feel?"

Harry complained of a slight headache, and a tender throat.

Madam Pomfrey nodded wisely.

"That's only to be expected. Take this potion for your throat, and try to have an early night." She handed Harry a draught that he recognised as a minor healing potion, and watched carefully as he obediently drank.

"Come back to me if you have further problems," the woman added sternly.

Harry nodded carefully, silently promising himself the exact opposite. He would have to order away for his own private collection of potions.

Finally she allowed him to leave the infirmary. Harry appreciated her intentions, if not the practical application of them.

He continued on to his classes.

It quickly became apparent that either last night's Prefect, or Madam Pomfrey had clearly spoken about what they had found, because along with the students, Harry found himself the object of attention of many of his teachers as well.

Professors Flitwick and McGonagall contented themselves with concerned glances and awarding him unnecessary points to Gryffindor. Only Snape seemed to skewer Harry with his normal acerbic taunts, and Harry found it a relief. Hunching his shoulders protectively, Harry did his best to keep a low profile.

Harry jerked himself upright in a panic.

His heart was fluttering frantically in his ribcage, his right hand was stiff and sore with tension, and his throat burned, as though he had somehow managed to drag his fingernails all the way down the inside of his neck.

But there was no movement around him, and after a short glance around, Harry realised that he had screamed himself awake from a nightmare, yet again.

With an awkward twitch, Harry dropped his wand arm back to his side, and lay down.

It had been over a fortnight since his first bad dream, and he had initially hoped that it would be a singular event.

But Harry had been doomed to disappointment, as the night terrors had returned again and again, often more than once a night, and it had now been ten days since Harry had managed a full night's sleep.

Harry's stomach twisted.

He had begun eating smaller meals before bed, in order to avoid regurgitating his dinner. As such, it had been a week since Harry had thrown up at night, but his hunger pangs did not help him rest easy.

Harry thought longingly of Madam Pomfrey's Dreamless Sleep potions. But no, they were highly addictive, and, bad things could happen with it if the dose was not calculated correctly. They contained the same base as the Draught of Living Death, after all, as he had discovered from his now systematic studies. With the luck he had been having, he did not want to risk being trapped in a nightmare and unable to wake. Harry didn't want to know first-hand if his true age might change the effects of a mind-altering potion, but there was no one he could ask.

His harsh panting gradually eased, and Harry levered himself up to peep out of his bed hangings and into the dorm.

After a long glance, he let the curtain drop. His silencing charms were working well. Better, in fact, than they ever had. All of the constant practice – and maintaining the charm while he slept – was actually improving his spellwork, and none of the other Gryffindor boys had heard a thing.

With his left hand Harry reached out and clumsily twisted open another mild pain potion for his throat. He was running out, and would have to reorder another collection in a few days, but for now he was managing the pain, and tiredness, and fear.

Harry curled up on his side, pressing his right fist, still holding his wand, tightly under his chin.

He bunkered down under the heavy covers, and stubbornly closed his eyes. If the nightmares insisted on returning, then Harry was simply going to have to get as much sleep as he could.

It took many long minutes for his panting to even out into the long, slow breaths of a sleeping child.

Harry had been keeping a close eye on his roommates in the days since his first nightmare, and noticed that while they treated him with care for a few days, they had since relaxed after more than a week of no more disturbances.

Yet he was intrigued by their attitudes. They seemed more respectful of Harry than he was expecting, despite the fact that he now slept every night under a canopy permanently charmed to silence. His screams were clearly going unnoticed. They did not even notice the sleek grey owl that arrived from St Mungos, providing him with a confidential supply of pain potions, which healed his sore throat every morning.

He wondered for a while if his spell work was less stable than he thought, but from their actions deduced that his continuing nightmares were not disturbing them at all. Indeed, now that he thought about it, they had been respectful from the very first day of school.

It was only then that Harry finally realised that by returning to his past life, changed, he had brought back to his first year more than just memories.

It was obvious, once he thought about it. Despite having recently compared himself unfavourably against a first-year Hermione, he had in reality lived through deadly dangers that none of his friends had ever faced. He had clawed his way desperately through situations that should have killed him, and overcome them simply due to gritty determination and dumb luck.

He had grown more confident with every danger he had passed, he had looked death in the face and made the cruellest decision possible, not for his own sake but for the others.

Despite his age, Harry was no longer a child.

And finally he realised how his classmates had started to view him. Before he had realised, the Gryffindor first years looked to him as a leader and example – even if it was just based on their impressions of Harry's confusing words at the flying class, and his apparent unconcern about Snape's venomous teaching. Goodness, they thought he was mature. Despite not understanding him, it seemed that they realised he knew things that they did not.

Students from the other houses respected him, as they recognised in him the qualities admired in their own houses, of loyalty, and intelligence, and ambition.

The teachers trusted him, not only to excel in his class work, but to watch over his classmates with a big-brotherly eye.

Even Malfoy's constant, frustrated attention – Harry was still careful to avoid any confrontations where they might offend each other – was resulting in a grudging respect of Harry. It was most disconcerting!

It was almost a relief for Harry to spend time with people he had not been close to in his previous life. Percy Weasley, for example, might be a somewhat strange refuge against the growing admiration from his peers. The studious red-head seemed uninterested in Harry's reputation, caring only about his attitude towards study. Yet the two of them might have a number of interesting conversations about advanced schoolwork, and the older boy would certainly be available for a discussion on how the various school subjects might interrelate.

Cedric Diggory, Harry wondered about. He had a great reputation as being patient and kind with his underclassmen. It would be nice to learn more about him as a person; perhaps overwrite memories of him as a corpse.

Oliver Wood? There must be more to him than just Quidditch, now that Harry thought about it. And wasn't it embarrassing that he had known the boy for seven years already and he was only just working that out?

It was an interesting idea. He decided to look them up and spend time with them when he could.

Avoiding sleep, the rumours, and pursuing his new-found knowledge, Harry finally overcame his resistance to study, throwing himself recklessly into his books, but the one person who was placed to notice how much time he was spending in the library was Hermione, and she felt it was a healthy pursuit.

His nightmares were regular occurrences by now. Every night, often more than once, Harry would jerk awake from a dream that tormented him with his inadequacy in the face of Voldemort's evil. He saw Cedric die again and again in the graveyard, Ginny lie pale and dead in the Chamber of Secrets, and Sirius and Lupin and Dumbledore and others killed before his eyes more times than he could count.

Harry became unhappily familiar with the bitter taste of the potion to heal his throat.

Harry grew grey and drawn. His weight – never great to begin with – began to drop, and the dark circles under his eyes had to be charmed away lest they reveal his lack of sleep.

Neville, Hermione and Ron approached him a few times with tentative concerns, and he did his best to respond with gratitude and patience. They gathered around him protectively often now, as the foursome walked in the halls between classes and meals. Hermione and Ron seemed to be fighting less. The thought alarmed him slightly when he thought it might be because of him, but then he convinced himself that they were just getting used to each other.

Snape seemed to poke at him in class. More cutting, more vicious.

"Mr Potter, is it within your admittedly meagre capabilities to desist from drawing attention to yourself with that inelegant snorting? A little decorum would assist you. 5 points from Gryffindor."

"Mr Potter, be so kind as to share with the class the reasons behind your ungainly flailing of your hands. Precisely how did you come to grind the asphodel root into medium-fine powder, and not, as instructed, a medium-dry pulp? 10 points."

"Mr Potter, explain to me specifically why you have allowed Mr Longbottom to add the chicken livers at this stage in your potion? And why was it still on the heat? Report to Mr Filch after dinner."

Hermione was furious, but Harry was still used to worse. These old, familiar taunts were a strange comfort in this place of constant future worry. Snape did seem to be speaking a tad more cuttingly, more viciously, now that he thought about it. But how could Harry being _good at potions_ incite Snape to greater heights of bitterness?

Even Ron was willing to increase the time he spent with Harry in the library, and the three seemed to have organised some kind of arrangement whereby one of them was with him at all times.

Their concern was claustrophobic, but touching.

Thank goodness for Quidditch.

Harry learned to love the hours of practice that Oliver Wood made the team do. The very act of flying seemed to far removed from everything he needed to achieve: it was purely a hobby, no vital outcomes or fundamental timeline checkpoints were associated with the game.

The Gryffindor team, acknowledging his skill and seeing their potential rise, were practicing as madly as he ever remembered. Early morning practices were no inconvenience to him; although he had to drag himself out of bed in exhaustion, it was a relief not to have to face more nightmares while sleeping in. While the chasers and beaters swarmed in the airspace below him, Harry would soar over the pitch, pushing his body to its limits, and push his problems aside.

The chilly mornings, the open sky, the early morning sun peeking through the clouds were a world away from the screams of the night.

While his studies worked to keep his mind otherwise occupied during the day, Harry quickly learned that flying simply kept his mind blank. He learned to think of nothing except find the Snitch, and after a good flight, his body slept better at night.

He grew calluses on his palms, his muscles sinewy, his eyes were bright and feverish.

It was not easy, but it was just another punishing year in a long line of troubles. Harry learned to cope.

The year passed slowly by, as Harry delicately managed a careful balance. He occupied himself with frenetic study, and punishing Quidditch training, while simultaneously developing his friendships.

The slightly unfamiliar relationships that he was developing with Ron, Hermione and Neville were still a haven of peace, but when the constraints on his actions grew too much for Harry, he threw himself into his studies with wild abandon. Unlike Hermione, who researched in logical and interrelated cycles that built her basic knowledge, Harry would find himself wildly pursuing an avenue of interest until he knew everything there was to know about one esoteric matter or another. Each day left him with a few more spells in his wand.

Harry rapidly developed into a student who was not only diligent, but practically obsessive about discovering new information. If his friends from the past had seen him, they would have worried at his single-minded focus. But fortunately for him, everyone who knew him well only had this new Harry to compare him to. His studies seemed totally normal to his new friends. Only Ron had mumbled complaints, but that was no reflection on Harry.

Harry's school year advanced.

There was a small fuss over Halloween, as a troll made its way into the castle dungeons, but the students were all safely evacuated to their common rooms, and Harry kept an extra close eye on his friends. They all remained safe.

Gryffindor dominated the Quidditch match against Slytherin. Harry had spent much of the previous evening grasping for ways to protect himself from Quirrell. He wavered for a while, on the edge of making a rather radical decision, but finally decided against slipping an anonymous note under Professor Snape's door. Too much could go wrong with that plan.

Instead, he took Neville aside early the next morning before breakfast. There was no one to notice the quiet conversation they had on their way to the breakfast table – Neville and Harry were two of the earliest risers in the Gryffindor house, and so they had total privacy as they walked.

Harry pulled Neville over to be walking right next to him, and spoke in a low voice.

"I think something is going to go wrong in the match today," he confided. Neville hurried to reassure him.

"Oh, Harry, I'm sure you'll be great," he encouraged. "You're the youngest seeker in a century, you know. Anyone who has seen you on a broom knows that you're the best seeker Gryffindor have had for years. And you've been sleeping well again...haven't you?"

Harry smiled. It was good to have friends. But that was not quite where he was leading the conversation.

"Thanks Nev, I've been fine. But that wasn't quite what I meant. Can I ask you a favour?"

Neville glanced at Harry's eyes searchingly. "Me? Not Ron or Hermione?"

"You're the only one I'm going to tell," Harry confirmed. "You can ask them for help later on, if you need it, but I need you to keep something a secret until the time when you can help me out."

Neville nodded solemnly. Harry asking for help cheating in the game never even crossed his mind.

"I think someone who hates me is going to try and jinx me today," Harry continued.

Neville gaped in surprise.

"No, seriously," Harry assured him, "I heard a rumour that I won't repeat, and I want you to keep an eye on the crowd for me while I play."

Neville nodded quickly. Harry went on. "If anything strange happens to happen to me," he said, "I'm trusting you to jump in and stop it."

Neville's eyes grew wider and wider.

"Well, sure, Harry," he babbled. "But I don't know what you think I can do."

Harry was quick to reassure him. "If it's a hex," he said, "then the easiest thing to do is make them break eye contact. A bump or a shove or something would work fine."

"But what if it isn't?" Neville wondered.

"Then maybe you can get Hermione to try and figure out what it might be," Harry offered. "And just as a hint," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "I'd like you to pay special attention to Professor Quirrell."

Neville returned to gaping like a fish.

"Quirrell? But he's more nervous than I am!"

Harry snorted in agreement, but nodded his head. "True, but it might be a disguise. I'm sure he's hiding something, and I know he hates me. Will you do it?"

Neville slowly agreed, not quite convinced, but willing to give it a go.

The two boys dropped the conversation as they approached the breakfast table, and moved on to other topics. Harry was heartened by the support of his housemates, and finally left the table to focus on the match. Looking behind him as he left, Harry was touched to see Neville, chewing carefully on his unfinished breakfast and his gaze fixed on the empty air in front of him, clearly concentrating hard on Harry's unusual request.

The Quidditch stands had filled up completely by eleven o'clock. His Gryffindor year mates had drawn up and charmed a banner to encourage him, and Harry flashed them a grateful wave.

Sooner than he anticipated, the teams were out on the pitch and in the air. Lee Jordan's voice filled the air, booming loudly over the distant cheers of the audience in the stands and Harry was delighted to see Neville had convinced Hermione and Ron to stand directly behind Professor Quirrell in the stands .

Harry circled about the Quidditch pitch, out of the way of the chasers and beaters. They players swarmed below him, weaving and swooping in their own complex plays.

Finally, he saw the gleaming gold of the snitch near one end of the pitch, and screamed towards it on his broom. A bludger came his way, and Harry dodged it skilfully.

Eyes open for other obstacles, Harry saw Marcus Flint move to impede him, and Harry hooned around the bigger boy's broom. Loud boos from both the Gryffindors and Slytherins sounded, some for the dangerous blocking, others for the fact that Harry had dodged it. Lee Jordan's amplified voice was scathing from the announcer's booth.

The Slytherin seeker was catching up to Harry as they both speed towards the gleaming snitch.

Harry lowered his body on his Numbus 2000, urging it faster and faster as he closed in on the snitch that was hovering near the ground. It finally seemed to realise that it had been spotted, and darted to one side, away from the approaching seekers. In his subconscious mind, Harry calculated when he would have to make his move, and transferred his grip one-handed onto his broom. He leaned forward in anticipation, just inches away from the prize.

His world narrowed: him, the broom, the golden blur.

With a jolt, his broom suddenly twitched. The Slytherin seeker, close on his tail, had to jerk away to avoid the sudden bucking of Harry's broomstick.

If Harry had been his normal self, he would have snarled a curse, or stifled a groan, but he was still inhabiting his mental blank space while he focussed on the snitch, and only the snitch. Thus his eyes remained fixed on the speck of gold that was about to slip away. He managed to wrestle the broom a few key meters forward. The bucking grew worse, but Harry barely spared it a thought. Without conscious planning, Harry eyed the hovering snitch that suddenly shot below him. He stopped blinking. A huge gasp sounded from the crowd as he seemed to topple left and slip down….

He promptly jumped off his broomstick with a swing, leaving the misbehaving broom behind and falling freely towards the snitch directly below his body.

The Slytherin seeker pulled his broom up with a muffled oath, and the crowd in the stands gasped as Harry plummeted down.

Harry paid no mind to the danger as he fell, frantically rotating his body in the air so that his hands were falling first. With a desperate twist, Harry snagged the snitch from the air as he fell past it.

He almost closed his eyes. It had been a near thing, and he had only succeeded in his gamble by catching the delicate wings with his fingertips.

He didn't have time to reach for his wand before he reached the ground, and indeed, he had chosen not to carry it in case it got broken, so Harry hit the ground with a muffled thump and a low groan.

For a horrified moment, the whole stadium was silent.

Then the noise erupted.

Lee Jordan's frantic voice was loudly proclaiming the Gryffindor triumph, as Harry slowly rolled over on the ground. The world came back, he heard the sounds, the bodies racing towards him.

A number of students were cheering on the stands, but many more were silent in worry as Madam Hooch and the Gryffindor team raced towards Harry's body on the ground.

Harry's eyes went to the stands, where he saw a frantic Neville standing over a gap in the crowd. He sent up a half-hearted wave, before lying back on the dirt.

Up on the stands, his friends spared only a glance at the teacher lying face-first in the seats, before scurrying down to the pitch.

A confused Snape glanced from the departing Gryffindors to the turbaned young teacher that had landed face-first beside him, before dismissing them immediately from his mind as they hurried away.

Down on the pitch, Harry was unsurprised to feel a sharp pain in both of his shins. Weakly waving off the enthusiasm of his teammates, Harry made his fractures known to Madam Hooch, who huffed, blew the final whistle, and promptly elevated Harry to take him to the infirmary.

The enthusiastic Gryffindor players were cheering Harry on as he was taken away.

Upstairs in the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey scolded Harry angrily as he lay in a bed, his fractures healing up quickly. He lay on his back, fighting to hide his grin, as she clucked and lectured away.

"It could have killed you, Mr Potter!" she scolded him heartily. "If you hadn't come out of that spin, if you'd landed on your head, or your neck, or your ribs…" He listened cheerfully. "Hold on to your broomstick next time," she implored. He smiled at the torrent of her words. Finally, she fixed him with her eyes.

"This madness is only to be expected of a Quidditch player," she eventually admitted. "But I hope not to see this kind of behaviour again."

Harry nodded in pleased contentment, and at last she sighed and shooed him up.

"Then off you go, Mr Potter. Your teammates will be waiting for you, so hurry along."

Harry's legs, as good as new, led him straight through the Gryffindor portrait and into the welcoming arms of his housemates.

His teammates congratulated him heartily, and the first year boys slapped him on the back. Hermione looked worriedly on, but Harry made a point to ruffle Neville's hair as he walked past.

"That was a great job, mate," his whispered, as he met the boy's eyes. "We'll talk later."

And Neville had to be content with that for now.

When the party had ended, Harry caught Neville alone in a quiet corner. The poor boy looked horribly guilty. He thought that he had failed in the task that Harry had given him to do. Harry was quick to reassure him.

"It was brilliant, Nev!" he explained, "Quirrell won't dare try this again in another match since you made him face-plant so well. And I wasn't thrown off, I promise," he continued. "I just had to move quickly to beat Higgs to the snitch."

Neville was not convinced.

"But I didn't do it in time, Harry! You fell off your broom!"

"Not exactly," Harry grinned. "I would have waited for you, but I thought Higgs might beat me to it. But you got Quirrell anyway! Even if we hadn't won the game, I would have been safe!"

Neville shook his head, "I know what you said about Quirrell, but I still don't think it was him, Harry. We were really close to the teachers, and both he _and_ Professor Snape were mumbling. Quirrell might have been trying to save you!"

"Hrm." Harry thought. There was no point creating unnecessary ill-will between the Gryffindors and Snape. "I suppose it's possible. Was Quirrell still stuttering, then?"

Neville's mouth flapped for a moment. "Er…no. He was talking just fine."

"Well then," Harry managed a thoughtful nod, "I guess he's just not all he's pretending to be."

And with that happy thought he steered Neville back towards to group.

An hour or more later, Harry was still filled with exaltation as he found his way to bed. He lay there, reliving the moment, before he finally focussed his concentration, cleared his mind, and rolled over to get to sleep.

It had been a nearly perfect day.


	13. The Most Precious Gift

The days marched on, and Christmas rapidly approached.

Still struggling with his night terrors, Harry spent hours pushing himself and his broomstick to their limits. He moved past the time, and the weather, the wet and the cold. His wholehearted submersion into thinking only about the Snitch was his safest defence against worrying niggles. He failed to notice that his mind was settling faster and faster into the same curious meditative trance that he used to find the snitch each time he used his broomstick. His body stopped protesting the punishing treatment, and his muscles developed a wiry strength beyond anything that he had ever had before.

The first snow fell, then disappeared, and came back again, settling on the grounds more permanently. Morning quidditch practice turned bitter and difficult as the winds picked up with extra chill.

Students came down with winter colds, and chafed hands and cracked lips brought everyone's tempers a little closer to the surface.

Occasional outbreaks of emotion broke up the otherwise cloistered feel of the Gryffindor common room. Some of the first years were homesick, Harry noticed. Seamus and Dean had a fight that ended with a torn football poster. A Prefect had to be called in to break it up.

Lavender Brown also had a fight with a roommate, Fay Dunbar – someone Harry had never really known before – and the girls' dormitory split metaphorically down the middle, Hermione maintaining an exasperated neutrality. The tension lasted three days, and upset a number of classes, before somehow Harry woke up one morning and came down the stairs to discover everything was as happy and friendly as it had ever been.

Hermione, to his frustration, would never explain what it had all been about. Finally simply telling him and Ron, who was also curious, that it had been a girl thing, and none of their business.

Speaking of whom, Ron and Hermione had another shouting match in the common room in front of everyone, before Harry and Neville orchestrated to physically steer them away from each other so that they could cool down in private.

Peeves was a menace. He made a number of first year Hufflepuffs cry, but that was nothing to the rumours about a fifth year Ravenclaw in hysterics that spread a week later.

Even the teachers seemed stricter and grumpier than usual. In Potions class Professor Snape took points and points off Gryffindor for the silliest things. Hermione's skin went a bloodless white colour with repressed frustration when Professor Snape took five points off Gryffindor for her hair having 'too much attitude'. Neville lost points for 'almost sniffing' over a potion. Ron breathed too loudly. Harry's admittedly feverish eyes were 'unmanaged and should be better disciplined'. Professor McGonagall resolutely returned the points during Transfiguration.

Harry himself found himself studying grimly, the homework and self-assigned work lacking in lustre. And yet every night he still saw his friends dying, which rather enforced the importance of his learning.

He got a good laugh the morning that he saw the Weasley twins bewitching snowballs to bombard the back of Quirrell's turban.

"Neville, Neville, come quickly!" Harry called, and Neville stumbled to his feet from the couch and lurched to Harry's window.

"Sweet Merlin, McGonagall will kill them," he breathed, watching the raucous twins pester the suspicious teacher.

Harry couldn't help himself, he broke out into a chuckle, and then a full-blown belly laugh at the sight. Somewhere under that turban, Voldemort's face must be looking murderous and stoic, and he couldn't do a thing! Neville looked confused, not having Harry's inside knowledge.

Harry's hysterical laughter attracted the rest of the common room to the windows, where it was joined by a number of cheerful catcalls and applause.

It seemed like the whole of Gryffindor house hung out the windows in appreciation of the twins.

They heard the noise, spun, waved up at the windows, and increased their efforts. Professor Quirrell turned furiously, scowled heavily, and opened his mouth to take points. He got a snowball in the mouth for his efforts and had to stop, clearing his face. The enchanted snowballs bombarded the back of his head the whole time.

George and Fred bowed deeply in the direction of the Gryffindor tower, before taking off away from the turbaned professor and his ire.

Harry laughed until he cried.

That afternoon became the turning point for the house, as the tension decreased, and people became happier once more.

The house common room became regularly crowded and noisy, as the students began to avoid the icy cold hallways in favour of the roaring fires inside the tower. Harry taught his friends a handy little warming charm that helped to fend off the chill.

Now that the common room was so loud, he and Hermione used the charm often, while braving the cooler temperatures of the library to study.

Worst of all was the freezing cold of Professor Snape's dungeon, where their frosty breath rose in streams of white smoke, no matter the time of day. They were still strictly forbidden to use wands in his class, and so Harry learned to cast it on himself before entering the room. His friends copied his habit, but their successes varied wildly. It wasn't unusual for Ron to start class with a flushed face and a shiny forehead, yet end it with a shiver.

Harry refused to do the charm for them. It took them a while to get the hang of it, but slowly the charms lasted longer, were more stable.

The potions classes became very hard working and trouble free, as the weather cooled.

Hermione and Neville were horrified that Ron and Harry intended to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays. Neville offered to invite them both to his house, and Harry actually considered it, before deciding with reluctance to enjoy some privacy over the break.

Ron, despite the temptation, decided to remain behind too.

A number of pointed comments from Malfoy raised the tension for a while, as Ron reacted badly to them, but the quiet intervention of Harry settled the two down.

Over the course of the months, Harry had reached an unofficial understanding with Malfoy, who still appeared to be studying Harry's behaviour closely. Harry treated the boy with courtesy and patience, and the blond young master had taken a step back, choosing to watch him from a distance, approaching only occasionally to sound Harry out. On Harry's side this was easy: there is nothing very challenging about keeping your temper when you are seven years older than your rival and have literally just seen him return to his childhood. But Harry had realised with a kind of shock that some of the advice that Malfoy dropped him about wizarding culture was actually very useful. But still, he was more interested to see how their tentative truce would affect their futures.

Harry wanted to where the Slytherin's observations would lead him, and where that would lead Harry.

The school began winding down for the year, with the exception of the senior exam students, a few determined Ravenclaws, and Harry and Hermione, who continued studying compulsively. One last day was filled with last minute homework assignments, furious activity, bustling crowds.

Then, finally, the school was empty.

Harry and Ron roamed the hallways, enjoying the sudden silence of the castle. Breakfast was served later than normal, and Ron delighted in the extra sleep and lazy days.

Harry, meanwhile, continued to wake early and apply himself to his books. The sudden approach of Christmas Day made him realise how much time had passed, and he was teased somewhat by a baffled Ron.

"Blimey, mate! What's driving you? You're acting so worried you're worse that Hermione!" Harry gave him a distracted grin, but did notice that Ron began wishing that he had accepted that invitation to go to Neville's house after all.

From then on, Harry made a point to devote a number of hours to Ron each night, playing wizarding chess and shooting the breeze in front of the large common-room fireplace.

It was a period of unusual rest.

Christmas Day arrived, and Harry was woken up by Ron's happy shout, and the mad scramble to open his presents began. Harry pulled himself up, and cocooned himself in his bedsheets to stay warm and cosy while he addressed the pile of presents sitting at the bottom of his own bed.

First, he opened a meagre little muggle envelope from his distant Aunt and Uncle. Alongside a terse note scribbled on the back of a cheap-looking Christmas card, Harry found a sellotaped five pound note.

He was surprised at the generosity of it, certainly an improvement over the single coin they had given him in the previous timeline, but perhaps his tentative ceasefire with Petunia had changed the situation somewhat. Or possibly, Vernon had simply forgotten he existed, and Petunia had given the present this year.

He wondered how they had gotten the present to him. Neither of them had an owl. And Dumbledore was surely unaware of his family situation.

There was a used stamp on the corner of the envelope. Perhaps it was the wizards' famous mail forwarding system.

He gave the paper money to Ron, who was keen to send it on to his father for study.

A homely wooden flute was received from Hagrid, and Harry stuffed it into the mokeskin pouch he still carried around constantly under his uniform, before turning to his other presents.

Ron, seeing what he had picked up, turned a bit pink.  
"Ah," he began, "I know where that one comes from. That's from my mum, I think."

Harry rustled the promising parcel, and rapidly tore open the paper. Ron groaned.

"Aww...I was afraid of that. She's given you a Weasley jumper," he admitted. "Sorry, Harry. I told her you weren't close with your family, and she got all funny about it."

Harry pulled the emerald green jumper over his head with a grin. It was a small, beloved familiarity in his dangerous, challenging world.

He glanced over at Ron's pile of presents.

"Is that one for you then?" Harry pointed out with a grin. "Go on, put it on. We should be matching for an occasion like this."

Ron was frustrated all over again when he saw the maroon wool inside the wrapping, but allowed himself to be cajoled into wearing it.

Harry perked his friend up somewhat by opening and sharing the accompanying box of homemade fudge, which always had been, in his entirely unbiased and impartial opinion, the best fudge he had ever eaten.

Hermione had bought him a book, to Harry's amusement. _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , which he opened immediately even though he had technically read it before. It was more expensive than the chocolates she had given him last timeline. Harry wondered if there was some significance in that. Of course, he had also given her a book, so it worked out rather well.

They continued opening their presents in companionable conversation, which halted briefly as Harry finally opened his mysterious present from Dumbledore.

The silver shine of his father's invisibility cloak spilled over his hands, and Ron stared in awe at Harry's gift.

"I've heard of those," he practically whispered. "If that's what I think it is – they're really rare, and _really_ valuable."

Harry let his attention be drawn to his fingers that were fiddling with the fabric.

"What is it?" he mumbled, waiting patiently for Ron's expected response.

"It's an Invisibility Cloak," he best friend said, a look of wonder on his face. "I'm sure it is – try it on."

Harry shivered out of his warm bed, and threw the familiar cloak around his shoulders as he stood, and watched the fabric flow down his body, shimmering gently into invisibility.

His fingers stroked the fabric in fondness.

"There's a note," said Ron suddenly. "A note fell out of it!"

The unsigned message dominated his attention, and Harry paused once more to appreciate the preciousness of his current situation.

His father's sacrifice, his friend's loyalty and friendship, Dumbledore's regard. Harry was indeed a lucky man. Boy. Whatever.

Harry watched Ron open his present to him, a muggle book called _Classic Chess Problems_ , and also a second-hand copy of the rather unlikely titled book _Fine Classics of Fairy Chess_. Ron turned it over in his hands.

"So muggles know about fairies then?" he turned to Harry with a quizzical look.

"Er, no," said Harry. "It's a variant of chess, that makes the game more complex. I don't know if you'll like it, but I found it on sale at a bookshop and thought you might want to try it."

"Wicked," said Ron as he flipped through it. "When did you get the chance to go to a bookshop Harry?"

"Oh, about that…" Harry began. "Mmph! Oh wow, hey, this fudge is incredible! Thank your mum for me, won't you? Wow…ah…did you want some?"

"Nah," Ron shook his head, nose deep in the book. "I got my own. Hey Harry, check this out, if you take your knight…Merlin, that would mean…er, but then I could…" Harry left him to his chess solutions.

To his surprise, there was one extra present sitting on the bottom of his bed that he had missed.

It was a small, rather humbly-wrapped package from Neville, which Harry tore open with eagerness. He had no idea what to expect from his timid friend – they had never been close enough to share presents before. He was rather amazed to find a collection of eight wizarding photographs that he had never seen before of his parents and their friends. He had seen many photos of them before, in the album Hagrid had given him – and he was desperately hoping he would be given it again – but had never realised that Neville would have all of his own parent's photographs at home.

He flipped through them keenly. Here, his father and another Hogwarts student – obviously Frank Longbottom, were drinking together in Hogsmead in their uniforms. The Gryffindor Quidditch team flying over the Quidditch pitch, Chasers in tight formation. Another, Alice and Lily were giggling together in the Quidditch stands, school scarves wrapped tight. A group of people laughing down by the lake in summer. Next, an astounded Lily in a swishy blue dress catching a bridal bouquet at a wedding, and then a dapper Frank teasing a blushing Lily in her wedding dress, Alice laughing from her place next to his elbow, her wedding ring flashing on her left hand. Finally, four happy parents, proudly displaying two tiny babies that were bundled up tight and squirming in their arms.

Harry gaped silently as he scanned through the images.

Ron noticed his silent focus, and crawled around to see.

"Blimey, Harry. Are these your folks?"

Harry tapped his finger next to his mother's grinning face.

"She's…uh…really pretty, mate," Ron offered.

"Yeah," murmured Harry. The other photos he had had been…formal, or group shots. Lovely, happy, beautiful, they really had been. But nothing nearly so close and personal and vibrant. He realised that when Hagrid sent off owls to his parent's surviving old school friends, they were not the close friends, but the year mates and team mates.

"And this is your dad?" Ron asked, still peering over his shoulder. "Look at that, you look just like him! Well, 'cept for the hair."

"Actually," Harry contradicted him, "I've got his exact hair. You remember that day on the train?"

"Ohhh, true." Ron exclaimed. "He looks more playful than you."

Harry gave a watery chuckle, and then blushed hotly as he realised how he sounded.

"You…ah," Ron mumbled. "You don't have photos of them?"

"Nothing," Harry murmured back, his eyes still pouring over the pictures.

In a rare and surprising display of maturity, Ron changed the subject.

"I hope you got something awesome for Neville, Harry," he asked worriedly. "That's just a…wow, y'know?"

"I know," Harry nodded. "I know he'll like it, but still…I should send him a thank you note or something. Do you have a minute?"

Harry took a moment to read Neville's note.

 _Dear Harry, Happy Christmas! I figured you didn't have anything from your parents, so Gran let me have some of these. I couldn't give you many, sorry, since Gran says duplicates won't last. But I hope you like them! Did you know that my dad was a Gryffindor prefect three years ahead of your mum?  
Neville_

Harry glanced back at the photos, now in Ron's hands. They weren't even copies, they were the real originals. And knowing what he did of Neville's parents, they were surely incomparably precious to him.

Harry scratched out a reply:

 _Hi Neville,_

 _Thanks for the note, and especially for the photos! I don't have much time – we're going down to for breakfast shortly, but I wanted to say thanks straight away. And please thank your Gran for me too. They're_

He stopped. It was horribly embarrassing trying to put down on paper what they meant to him. He scratched out the last word.

 _I don't quite know what to say. I'll definitely always look after them. Have a great Christmas (and I hope you like your present too, although it's not quite in the same league)._

 _Your friend, Harry._

He turned around and called Hedwig.

Ron looked up. "Who's that?"

Harry swore.

"Ah," said Harry, feeling like he'd just been kicked in the stomach. "I just realised I'm going to have to run to the Owlery before breakfast. Do you mind if I…?"

"Yeah, alright," agreed Ron. "I'll chase down my brothers, and meet you there."

Harry threw on some warmer clothes, and then gently reached out and took the photos from Ron's grasp. He carefully folded them into the front cover of his new _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , and then gently forced the whole thing into his ever-present mokeskin pouch. He slipped on his shoes and headed towards the stairs, the Weasley twins' voices echoing loudly behind him as he slipped out, thoughts of family, and food and warmth, and the strong pang of loneliness and regret reverberating in his head.

Harry lay in bed that night pensively, considering his first memory of this night in his mind.

Finally, he came to a decision.

Scrambling quietly out of bed, he threw on the Invisibility Cloak, and snuck out of the Gryffindor tower, making his meandering way towards the classroom in which he knew a certain mirror would be hidden.

He entered the room warily, scanning the corners for a Dumbledore who might be hiding with Disillusion charms or other magics.

Finding no one there, he nevertheless approached the mirror warily.

Harry was loath to look into it, but reasoned ruthlessly that he really should keep up the appearance of an inquisitive eleven-year-old innocent.

His eyes roamed the frame: tall, golden, exquisite, just as he remembered. _Erised stra ehru oy tube cafru oyt on wohsi_ , in elegant script _._ Still the same.

With a pale face, an audible gulp and a rising sense of anticipation, he stepped in front of the glass.

To his total surprise, the image that he saw forming before him was not the collection of Potter family members that he had been expecting to see.

His smiling mother and father, their relatives with the assorted bones and angles that Harry had inherited were not waving to him from the reflection.

It was with wide eyes that Harry absorbed the image before him, and then, with a silent sigh, he closed them again. The anticipation in his heart turned to fear and longing.

It seemed the wishes dearest to his heart had changed this timeline.

Fortifying himself, Harry once more gazed into the mirror.

There before him, in all their youth and exuberance, were the beloved forms of every member of Dumbledore's Army. In fact, as Harry looked closer, there were more.

A teenage Ginny waved at Harry familiarly, from her position in the mirror, where she held tightly on to his arm. Ron and Hermione, Neville and Luna stood beside them, confident in their bodies and their selves. Hermione's arms were bare, her skin was clear and scar-free.

The Weasley twins, little Colin Creevey and other members of the DA all stood around him with ease and confidence. Both twins had their ears. Bill Weasley stood there, shown without his scars. Fleur smiled happily up at her husband, and then beamed out at Harry. Percy stood with both arms thrown around his brothers, a laugh upon his lips. They were older in the image than they were in the present, and Harry knew with certainty that he was seeing them alive and safe in the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat.

His only family, Sirius, stood near the back next to Lupin and other members of the Order of the Phoenix. They looked healthy, and carefree. Pink-haired Tonks held a baby with shocking blue hair and a toothless grin. Harry clenched his fists tight as the mirror showed him exactly what he stood to lose if he failed in his self-appointed task.

Malfoy, of all people, stood there with his parents. Not part of the group, not happy and smiling and welcome, but not in conflict with them either. Harry had to do a double-take.

Dobby waved out at Harry from the front of the group, as did a gruesomely smiling Kreacher, still with Regulus' locket gleaming proudly from his neck.

Their happiness drew Harry towards them, half unthinking he reached out a hand to brush the surface of the mirror, but with a twitch he caught himself and turned away.

It was so beautiful it hurt.

He stood, staring blankly at the open door for a moment, fighting to banish the picture from his mind. The feeling he had been expecting, that half joy, half terrible sadness sank into his chest like a delicious, deadly poison. He grasped his chest, gasped for breath. His greatest wish, Harry thought, with a bubble of distraction, conversely showed him his greatest fear. The boggart lesson with Lupin – if it happened the same in third year – would be gruesome. Then Harry swiftly stepped out into the hallway, and heading back towards his bed.

The next morning, Harry slept in late, and chose not to tell Ron what he had seen.

Now that he knew what the mirror would offer his friend, now that he knew how dangerous it was, he would not risk the journey with him.

Instead, Harry took a day off studying, to Ron's delight, and played a monster chess tournament with him all day. After losing gracefully at the end of the afternoon, twenty-one games to zero, Ron was most understanding when Harry requested an early night.

He returned to the classroom again alone, later at night after Ron had fallen asleep.

The beautiful picture drew him closer to the mirror than Harry was expecting, and he wondered with a pang if it had been his innocence that had spared him from the worst of its compelling charm last timeline.

He remembered being intrigued, but the hold that the mirror held over his heart was by far stronger and more piercing than he recalled.

Although a single gaze into the mirror caused him to lose track of time, Harry was willing to risk just one glance for Dumbledore's sake, and then tore himself away to return to bed.

The third night, Harry arrived eagerly in the classroom, hoping to see Dumbledore at last.

Despite his best efforts at peering around the room, the Headmaster's voice surprised him, springing as it did out of a space he was sure had been empty.

"So – back again, Harry?" the familiar voice asked.

Harry twitched, but duly responded as expected.

"I – I didn't see you, sir."

"Strange how short-sighted being invisible can make you," said Dumbledore, smiling from his corner of the room.

Harry, having been particularly careful to try and spot the man for exactly that reason, was unconvinced by Dumbledore's words, but kept his silence.

Dumbledore continued.

"So you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"Yes, sir," Harry admitted. "It's beautiful, but cruel."

Dumbledore eyed him sharply at the comment, but the twinkle returned to his eyes in excessive force.

"Indeed it is, dear boy," the Headmaster agreed, beaming. "It is wise of you to notice. Indeed, that is the mirror's delight, and its power. Men have wasted away before it, and, entranced by what they see and unable to bear the loss of their dreams, been driven mad, and died."

Harry and Dumbledore observed each other silently for a moment.

Harry licked his lips. "So a person will always see their heart's desire, sir?" he asked carefully. "Every time I look in the mirror I will see the same sight? The enchantment can never be broken?"

Dumbledore gazed thoughtfully at Harry for a moment.

"Almost," he agreed. "Whatever it is that you long for most strongly _in that moment_ will be offered to you."

The old man looked pensively at Harry a moment longer.

"But never let yourself believe that means you can control it, Harry. A wise man might look upon the mirror, realise its false promise, and never return," he continued. "A foolish man might return to the mirror many times, and yet never see the same thing twice. No amount of magic or force can command the mirror to act as one might wish."

Harry hid his sigh of relief, and his body relaxed. Dumbledore watched closely, before bringing his hands together once in a clap.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry. I must ask you not to go looking for it again."

Harry smiled, a complicated expression flittered over his young face.

"I have learned what I needed to with regards to the Mirror, sir. I do not wish to be tormented by it further."

Harry wished his Professor goodnight, and swiftly swished towards his room. Dumbledore stared thoughtfully after him.


	14. Best Laid Plans

The rest of the holidays pasted peacefully. Harry had once again won himself a set of wizard chess pieces from the Christmas feast, and he and Ron played at least one game against each other a day. This time Harry didn't accept any advice from Percy, and thought he was doing slightly better than he otherwise would have.

He must have been doing something right, because late evening on New Year's Eve, he actually won his first game against Ron.

He also made time to play with Percy a bit, who had not a shred of Ron's chess genius. It made for a far more satisfying competition, and they each won games with a fair and even kind of regularity.

Percy thanked him after each one with a certain look in his eye. "Thank you for the game, Mr Potter. It was a close competition."

"Sure," said Harry. "Any time." He waited for Percy to speak. There was something he wasn't quite saying. But nothing happened, except a day passed and Percy challenged him to another game.

"Sure," said Harry the next night, and then the day after. "You know you can call me Harry, right?"

"Harry, then," Percy nodded officiously, but Harry thought he could see Percy trying. "I wanted to thank you for what you have done for my younger brother. He's changed since he met you, and on behalf of his family, I would like you to know we appreciate it."

Harry had in fact realised that Ron was growing up fast. "You mean that in a good way, right? He's a good friend. It's nothing he wouldn't do for me."

"I have been reporting to my mother how his work ethic has improved beyond recognition," said Percy, then added unexpectedly, "And he's happier now."

"Well," said Harry, uncomfortable with the attention, "Anything I've done is because your family has been so kind to me already. You guys helped me through the platform barrier, and Fred and George helped me on the train. Your mother even made me clothes and fudge, and Ron's a good mate. And you've given me advice on school and study yourself, Percy. You saved me with the library thing. It was…ah…very thoughtful of you."

The conversation was rapidly becoming more touchy-feely than Harry was comfortable with, but he felt obliged to express himself. And besides, if Percy didn't feel ostracised from his family…

"Look," said Harry. "Thanks for mentioning it. Is it okay if I, uh, ask you advice when I need it? Like studies and stuff?"

Percy gave him an actual lopsided grin. "That would be acceptable," and they parted ways for the night.

Harry wasn't sure how things would play out, considering all he was changing, but he rather thought that he was doing the right things.

The remainder of the holidays concluded rapidly, and soon the castle was bustling with life once more. Harry and Hermione were pleased to be reunited and discussed what they had read and studied over the holiday. Neville listened to Ron's stories of chess and snowfights, and rather wished that he had stayed at the castle himself.

He was also quick to reassure Harry about his Christmas present, having carried the irritable Mimbulus Mimbletonia in his arms all the way from home into the Gryffindor dormitory.

"It's brilliant, Harry," he enthused. "I've wanted one since I was eight and first heard about Assyrian plants in general. Did you know that Stinksap can be used as a kind of healing salve for animals? And it's an emergency first aid resource for injuries in the wild? My Gran was really impressed I know so much about it. It's a great present Harry." He continued more quietly, "I'm glad you liked yours, too."

Classes began immediately, and Harry's time was once again rapidly eaten up by his studies, his friends and Quidditch practice.

Oliver Wood had returned from break stressed, and his mood was slowly filtering down into his team mates when Quidditch practices began increasing in frequency.

For his part, Harry did not mind. He was more than up-to-date on his school work, was continuing his private studies effectively, and continued to find that the physical demands of playing Seeker gave him some much-needed head space.

Indeed, it was finally at this time that Harry achieved the first conscious step forward in his troublesome Occlumency training.

Despite his frustration with the subject, he had continued to reread his mysterious Occlumency book from the Room of Requirement, and realised with some surprise that the clearing-of-the-mind that the skill required had been realised while he focussed on Quidditch training.

The curious trance that he had learned to use while he searched for the Snitch, with no thoughts or distractions to divert his focus, was exactly the mental state that Occlumency first required to begin taking control of his mind.

He still brought out the practice snitch to help him achieve this strange, mirror-like calm. But once he had achieved the mental state required, Harry barely noticed what he did while on his broom. Carefully at first, and then with more enthusiasm, Harry took to emptying his mind of thought. When he did so he learned, when the forefront of his mind was empty of thoughts concerning the present he could drift a little deeper in his mind, and examine his thoughts on the past. Tentatively, carefully, Harry began drawing one bad memory at a time to the front of his mind, and began to work through them. Once he had examined a memory, reliving it in all its colour and emotion and glory, Harry popped it back where he found it, and realised it was a little neater, more compact, and better understood in his mind. Harry realised that once he had worked through more of his memories, his mind would be better organised too. His recall would be better, his emotions a little more separated from past events.

He needed to review the memories in all their gory details, and yet remain entirely composed regarding the events. Harry wondered originally if he should be starting with happier memories, but it was his nightmares that troubled him, and the horror of those memories had truly existed only in his past future.

As he grasped the trick to manage his memories, and settled more and more of his nightmares in his mind, he realised that his mind was becoming ordered. More peaceful. More structured.

He realised with a shock that the study notes – colour coordinated, chronological and everything, had been helping him the whole time too.

If anyone had told him that the trick behind Occlumency was introspection and good revision habits, he would have laughed in their face.

In the beginning, each bad memory and nightmare he faced was a struggle, but over weeks he first dealt with the big ones, then moved on to less troublesome memories. He seemed to have more space in his mind, some memories had shrunk on their own.

Harry reasoned it was the logic of mental association. When he, for example, tidied his memory of Voldemort's rebirth in Little Hangleton cemetery, the associated guilt in his other memories about Cedric became a little less vivid, a little less painful.

It wasn't the concentration, it was the removal of emotion while he was viewing the memories that he struggled with. He had to watch these traumatic events again and again _while_ feeling their horror, before he could recall the details of the event _without_ it. Then he pushed them back into his mind, all folded up neatly and tidily.

Perspective. That was the key word.

As his memories slowly but surely lost the bulk of their emotional baggage, Harry found himself managing his own emotions better during the day. When the emotionally charged memories of him and Malfoy facing off eased, it became even easier to respond maturely to him in real life also.

It all depended on the curious trance. Or, in Snape's words, the clearing of the mind.

The state was difficult to achieve while he worried about it, but with good intuition and luck he continued to set loose the Snitch over the Quidditch pitch, and organise his memories while he searched. Ron was frustrated that Harry spent so much time on the pitch on his own. He pleaded, and whined, that perhaps Harry could play with Ron too. However, Harry had his priorities, and focused on his own practice. He was pleased when he saw Ron succeed in pulling Neville, Dean and Seamus into the air with him.

Meanwhile, Harry could regularly be found using the Quidditch pitch after classes had ended, and throughout the weekend. His closest friends occasionally chose to watch him while he flew, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team were horrified by the example Harry was setting: Oliver Wood had a new favourite person.

Even the Slytherin mutterings about first year students on the team, of teacher favouritism, and Harry's lack of skill ceased, as he continued to accumulate hours and hours spent in practice.

The frequency of nightmares lessened as Harry gradually forced the worst of his memories into submission.

They did not cease, however, but as Harry's sleep improved and his health increased, he was driven to continue and develop the work he had started.

All of his friends and Quidditch teammates, breathed a sigh of relief the day after Harry first learned to access the meditative trance without his broomstick. The excessive hours of flying rapidly decreased from that point on, and Wood could no longer use him as an example of how hard the Gryffindor team should practice.

Finally, Harry reached the point where he had roughly catalogued all of his key memories in his mind, his enthusiasm for the skill had recovered, and it was with eagerness and excitement that he returned to the beginning to refine and improve his mental discipline.

By the time his nightmares had become rare and unusual, Harry had to admit to himself that he was rather glad that the night terror situation had occurred as it had. The first stage of Occlumency was – not completed, it would be an ongoing process as he continued to accrue more memories, but – understood, and the next stage of Occlumency could begin.

Namely, managing the memories when an intrusion was felt in the mind. Again, Harry wasn't quite sure where to start, but he thought he might sense invasions in his consciousness now. Perhaps if he was worried about Dumbledore or someone, he could start thinking about homework, and the Dursleys. There must be some way that he could shuffle memories off to one side, if he wanted to hide any secrets. He began looking into the discipline required.

It was just in time: Dumbledore, Snape or Quirrell would only have had to look into his mind at an opportune moment to see their futures laid bare before them. And as the school year began heading towards its close, Harry knew that he could face any or all of them at any moment.

Eventually, when a rare bad dream or memory jerked Harry awake at night, he calmed himself by throwing on his invisibility cloak and sneaking into the kitchens for a midnight snack. The house elves were ecstatic to meet him.

His mental resilience grew rapidly, fuelled as it was by his immediate need. Thus his good humour rose too.

The Gryffindor verses Hufflepuff game approached with speed, and Harry found himself relieved when the rumours about Snape refereeing the match began.

His teammates were bemused by his attitude, but Harry rebuffed them gently.

"Don't you think we play better than Snape can handicap us?" He grinned in front of his fellow players. "We have been practising like crazy, we've got a great team. I honestly think we have the skills for this, never mind Snape."

They looked at him, encouraged, but unconvinced. Harry's grin turned cheeky.

"Just imagine it this way. Playing in front of Snape will be practice in case we ever need to play in front of Dementors. If we can get this game, we'll get them all."

The gathering broke up with laughter and good cheer.

The game began shortly thereafter, and Harry, remembering clearly his surprising success in his last timeline, kept his eyes peeled.

Five minutes came and went without success, but Harry supposed that a repeat performance was too much to ask for.

It would be the time ripples changing the future, he assumed absently, as the Snitch appeared to be avoiding the spot he had his eyes on.

It was almost an hour later when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glint of gold, and the crowd gasped in appreciation as the Gryffindor seeker threw himself into a howling dive.

While some fans screamed in excitement, the less competitive Quidditch audience were tense in worry as he missed the ground by mere inches, and Harry pulled out of his dive with a swoop, one hand raised in triumph above his head.

Gryffindor beat Hufflepuff, 280 points to 70.

Dumbledore watched keenly from the stands, Snape's face pulled tight in dissatisfaction, but Gryffindors were already crowding the pitch, slapping and hugging and congratulating Harry as they swarmed around him.

Harry escaped the throng just long enough to follow after Professors Snape and Quirrell, to confirm that events were proceeding more or less as he expected them to.

He was quick to rejoin his friends.

The party that night in the Gryffindor common room went on until the early house of next morning.

It wasn't long before the normal castle life seemed to ratchet up a few notches as the next few weeks passed, and Hermione and the teachers kept mentioning the approaching exams. Harry, Neville and even Ron buckled down under her strict supervision to revise their notes.

And when Harry, who was driven to occasionally escape the now-stress-filled library to relax at Hagrid's hut, surprised his friends with the news that their half-giant friend had managed to get his hands on an illegal dragon egg, they were amused to see Hermione almost thrown off her game.

In contrast to Hermione's breathless protests, Harry seemed calm and in control as he sat Hagrid down firmly, and with great patience and care, organised for Hagrid to get Dumbledore's permission to raise the young beast on school grounds.

With legal consent, and the careful oversight of Professor Kettleburn, the young dragon kit was integrated into the advanced Care of Magical Creatures course until it was big enough to travel to Romania.

No fuss, no illegal escapades, no rule-breaking (on their behalf, anyway), no midnight detentions or fights with Slytherins occurred at all.

Harry was quite proud of how neatly he managed to resolve that little problem.

Harry's own studies continued apace, his private interests developing rapidly now that his memories were better stored and retrieved in his own mind. It seemed he could remember things better now he had an organised mind. The thought hadn't even occurred to him until recently, but he took full advantage of it. His studies seemed more interesting now that he was good at it, and he learned to understand Hermione a little bit more.

He was slightly astonished to discover, now that he had the luxury of energy and could afford to notice, that Neville and Ron had begun studying together. His two friends were working closely with each other, compensating and offsetting their weaknesses in an effort to replicate Harry and Hermione's study progress.

Somewhat bemused, Harry followed their example and redoubled his efforts in his own pursuits. And when his interest failed, Harry remembered Cedric, and kept going anyway.

Neville and Ron had been inspired by Harry's work ethic throughout the year, especially considering that he had been so focussed despite his exhaustion.

They were unaware what had changed, but Harry was clearly feeling better, so his two dorm mates relaxed their worried vigilance, and turned their focus to their own exams.

Harry himself, however, continued to up the ante.

He overheard Neville and Ron bringing the topic to Hermione's attention one Saturday afternoon.

"How's your study going, Hermione?" Neville began, with a quick glance at Ron.

"Hrm?" Hermione looked up from her book in the common room. "Alright, I think," she admitted. "I'm a little concerned about the transfiguration theory when concerning metals. I believe there is some kind of relation to the periodic table, but the logic is escaping me for now. There are some that seem to take more energy than others, but I can't seem to integrate those with the wand movements. Yet they insist on reacting a little less predictably than the others, and I'm not sure why."

Ron and Neville looked at her with wide eyes. Ron looked blank, while Neville did his best to channel an impressed-and-thoughtful look.

"What's that?" Ron began, before interrupting himself. "Actually, never mind."

There was a little awkward moment while Hermione met their eyes, before pushing the topic aside.

"But you probably weren't asking about that. Are you guys okay? Did you want me to make changes to your study schedule?"

Ron was quicker than Neville, but both boys shook their heads.

"Not quite," Neville answered. "We were just wondering how much study you do after we say goodnight each evening."

Hermione cocked her head.

"At night? I usually read a chapter or two of a textbook before I sleep. Is that what you mean?"

Ron frowned.

"It's just, we're a little worried about Harry again."

"Oh," Hermione pursed her lips. "Is he looking tired again? I thought he had been better lately."

"That's just the thing," Neville explained eagerly. "We think he's trying to make up for lost time. He's been acting obsessed, Hermione!"

She gazed at them in confusion.

"You mean, he's sleeping too much? Having naps? Carrying a pillow around? He's not charming his dark circles away again, is he? As if we didn't notice last time."

The boys shook their heads.

"Not quite. We don't quite know what's going on. But sometimes when we're all getting ready for bed, Harry just drops out of the conversation. Because he's _reading,_ Hermione. Before bed. It's practically an illness, now. Surely even you can see that."

Neville continued Ron's explanation. "We were wondering, you know, if you think that's normal, reading whole books before bed."

Hermione opened her mouth to comment, and then, after a pause, closed it again.

"Whole books, you say?" She cocked her head. "Are we talking, _Hogwarts: A history_ thickness, or _Quidditch Through the Ages_ width?"

Ron and Neville stared at her aghast. "It's _normal_!? Hermione, that's horrible."

There was an awkward pause, while the three friends looked at each other blankly.

Finally, Hermione offered conciliatorily, "I think, as long as he doesn't start looking sick again, and manages to keep his grades up and still spend time with us, we should let him enjoy his hobbies without judging him."

She nodded absently to herself as she spoke. "Perhaps he would be willing to recommend some further reading for us too, for background information."

Hermione promptly began a short list on a nearby piece of parchment, leaving only Neville to watch as Ron backed away, pale faced.

There was silence, as each figure retreated into their own thoughts. From his unnoticed place on a nearby couch, Harry was amused to see the conclusions that each of his friends had reached regarding his hobbies, but the incident passed without a further word.

Time proceeded apace, and the teachers seemed to encourage the pervasive sense of panic in the school, as they began handing our more and more homework.

While Harry himself was practically immune to the pressure, Hermione became more and more nervy as the days went past.

He was careful to spend time in the library, where he often cast a notice-me-not charm on himself while studying, and was pleased to overhear Professor Quirrell being once more browbeaten into agreeing to steal the Philosopher's stone.

Exams began, which Harry swam through with ease. His wand subjects were easy, and Harry's written work had improved beyond measure due to his new interest in understanding the basics and background of class work.

He felt he even did well in the History of Magic exam, having studied the textbook avidly, and taking advantage of his self-writing quill notes.

When not revising, Harry took to haunting the corridor on the third floor within sight of the locked door, while under his invisibility cloak.

Long hours passed each day as Harry stood there, his friends elsewhere – at dinner, in the common room, perhaps in bed, hopefully assuming that Harry had gone to sleep early, and he used the time to practice his Occlumency control. Harry was intending to avoid notice as Quirrell slipped into the room, and hoped anxiously that all of his preparation this year had been sufficient for this moment.

Far too soon, Harry saw the nervous Defence Professor creep down the hallway, wand in his outstretched hand.

Harry practically snapped to attention, although he did not allow his body to move an inch, assuming that any shifting of fabric could alert his enemies to his presence. He shuffled the thoughts in his mind to a kind of blank emptiness – hoping his basic insights into the mind magics were enough for the moment.

He watched with baited breath as the turbaned Professor glanced nervously along the hallway, before muttering a small charm into the lock in the door, and slipping inside.

Harry remained silent, and his listening ears heard from behind the door a low rumbling growl begin immediately. Immediately, a gentle harp melody rose up from inside the room, and the growling decreased, finally stopping. It was after only a few short moments that a heavy tap rang out as the trapdoor fell open.

Harry noticed with some surprise that his breath was coming in short, gasping pants. His adrenaline was already running high. He tried to calm down.

Then, having heard proof that the Professor had overcome the first hurdle, Harry turned and dashed quickly away from the room, around the corner and towards the stairs.

Taking advantage of the lack of audience, he quickly slipped out of his invisibility cloak, rolled it up tightly, and called for a house elf.

"House elf," he tried, sounding firm. Nothing happened. "Pookey, I need you."

A small house elf dressed in a slightly rumpled pillowcase popped loudly next to Harry.

"Mister Harry Potter sir, is needing Pookey?" it asked with a lopsided bow. The young house elf, while professional, was still new enough to the job to be excited when given small tasks. "What is Pookey needing to be doing for young Mister Harry?"

Harry smiled at the creature. They had become close when Harry snuck into the kitchen for snacks at odd hours of the night.

"I need you to give an important message to Dumbledore, Pookey," he instructed. "Send it through his Phoenix, Fawkes. Can you do that?"

The house elf squeaked in shock, her eyes growing larger and larger.

"Mister Harry Potter is wanting to disturb the Great Professor Dumbledore, sir?"

"Yes, Pookey," Harry confirmed. "It is very important that Professor Dumbledore gets a warning from Fawkes in ten minutes. I am trusting you to do this."

The little elf shivered in nervous silence. After an expectant moment, Pookey nodded her head.

"Ten minuteses, a warning from the Phoenix. Yes, Pookey can do that."

Harry nodded his head decisively, and patted her on the head.

He snatched his hand back quickly, what if the creature felt insulted?

From Pookey's raised chin and sparkling eyes, Harry supposed that she was pleased with the responsibility and encouragement, so with a final reminder, Harry spun around and returned to the corridor.

He carefully stuffed his cloak into the mokeskin pouch, still resting safely around his neck. It was a tight fit, but he managed to jam the fabric into the bag without too much trouble.

Then, feeling nervous, Harry crept back into the third-floor corridor, and through the door.


	15. One Step Forward, Two Back

He was leaving things to fate, slightly, by attempting this without his friends.

With his previous experience and extensive research, none of the challenges should be too difficult for Harry on his own, and he was desperately intent on keeping Ron, Hermione and Neville safe from harm.

He pattered quietly through the small room, where Fluffy was still snoozing to the sound of the melodic harp.

The great beast still slept deeply, heavy breaths resounding through the room. Occasionally, the silence was broken by a huge, snuffling snore. After an unusually loud growly snort shocked him for the third time, Harry persuaded himself to hurry it up.

With a single great heave, he opened the trapdoor and swung himself over the edge by his fingertips, hanging in darkness for only a moment. Suspended in the black, he closed his eyes and let go of the stone, falling rapidly into the deep.

Expecting the drop, Harry landed on the soft mess of Devil's Snare, and grabbed his wand smoothly from within the mokeskin pouch. Without giving the plant time to increase its leverage, Harry conjured a small, bluebell flame.

Cradling it gently in his left hand, it allowed him to scurry awkwardly down and off the plant, making it safely to the floor.

He stood for a moment to catch his breath. The fall had been longer than he remembered. Above him in the distance glowed the still-open trapdoor. Perhaps, Harry pondered absently, he had fallen two stories? The room he was in was dark and damp. Maybe four? The cold air implied that he was deep underground already.

Leaving the long drop behind him, Harry spun around and began the long walk down a dark and gloomy corridor. The air was cool, and strangely dank about his face. Harry kept the small flame burning in his hand, and began his slow way down the corridor. His footsteps fell flat and shallow on the stone.

Harry felt simultaneously unnerved and reassured by the soft sound of dripping water. It was creepy, moving along in a bubble of light as if he was the only living thing around. But it was also familiar.

He was glad his friends were safely in bed, and innocent of what he was going through. It would have been comforting to have their company, but Harry was afraid that there was a chance this timeline would have greater challenges to overcome. He was pleased that they could not be hurt.

He stared out into the blackness as he walked.

After a number of minutes travelling at his slow, steady pace, Harry reached the well-lit chamber at the end of the descending passageway, and slipped inside with a sigh. After the gloom of the corridor, the bright, steady light hurt his eyes. He shook away the flame in his hand, and, after a carefully glance around the room, approached the heavy, wooden door.

Harry peered closely at the lock. It was bronze in colour, not quite as he remembered it, and heavy-looking and gothic in style. Fixing the design carefully in his mind, Harry jogged over to the pile of old brooms leaning against the wall, and took to the air.

He slipped carefully into the calm, blank stillness of his Quidditch trance. His thoughts slowed and distanced themselves, diminishing in his mind until he was experiencing the world through a small puddle of stillness and focus. He hovered, unmoving in the air, for some time, he could not tell how long.

Then, his body moving even before his brain caught up with his eyes, Harry's arm snapped out and his broomstick plummeted down into a steep dive.

Success! He allowed himself a quiet snicker as he easily caught the key. A heavy bronze cast with pale cream wings, he wrapped his hand about the shaft, and levered it into the lock.

It popped open with a loud click, and Harry let the frazzled looking key fly free to rejoin its mates.

With a careful hand, he quietly reached out and cracked the door open, just an inch, and peered into the next room.

The next chamber was totally dark, and Harry could not see into the room. He listened closely for any movement, spending a long anxious moment listening to the sound of the keys fluttering behind him. There was dripping water close by him somewhere, probably running down damp walls, but Harry relaxed somewhat as he failed to hear any sound of Professor Quirrell or his undead master playing their way across the chessboard.

He thought, for one long moment.

He did not have Ron with him. Could he risk it? He had researched winning moves, but if the chessboard acted outside of his expectations…

Playing his way across would be his second choice, then.

Harry could not see what enchantments had been cast on the room in front of him. The few diagnostic spells he had learned were simple charms, with nothing suitable for transfigured, animated figures in a magically enlarged space somewhere in the bowels of the most magical castle in Britain.

Still behind the door, he grabbed hold of the invisibility cloak and wrestled it out of the mokeskin pouch, mounted the broom again, and draped the cloak over the whole ensemble. Once satisfied that he was invisible, Harry gently eased himself through the door, gliding silently through the air. Not a foot touched the floor.

The heavy magic in the air seemed to gather its breath for one long moment. His wand at the ready, Harry threw himself into the moment, before the light blazed on and the chess pieces turned their blank eyes towards him.

"CONFUNDO!" Harry whispered harshly, recklessly sending wave upon scorching wave of his magical power through his wand and into the spell.

He held his wand towards the floor until his hand started to cramp. The room remained dark and still.

Harry heard the door behind him click shut, and the room seemed dead. Slowly at first, then picking up speed, Harry flew over the board in the direction of the distant door.

The only light he could navigate by was shining dimly from underneath the door through which he had passed. Nevertheless, he managed to find the other door without much difficulty. Hovering in front of it, he once more listened for noise. Hearing none, he carefully pushed the heavy door open, and glided into the room.

He alighted silently on the stone.

Harry quickly leaned the broomstick up against the wall, dragged off the invisibility cloak, and stuffed it into his pouch.

Finally free, he used his hand to drag the corner of his robe up and over his nose.

His muscles by this time were tense and sore, and at some point he had started panting heavily again. Harry moderated his breathing as soon as he noticed, instead taking shallow breaths through the cloth of his robe. The smell was foul, and the stink from the stunned troll accosted his face, bringing tears to his eyes.

He scuttled over the prone body, and stepped through the empty archway without a backwards glance.

As soon as he passed the threshold, familiar looking flames burst up in both entrances, purple flames shot up behind him, black flames to his front.

Harry rapidly read through the roll of parchment, thinking fondly of Hermione, hopefully asleep in her bed. He would have to manage without her this time.

Having scanned the puzzle, Harry quirked his brow thoughtfully. A few simple rhymes aside, the problem seemed to him to be much the same as the one Hermione had solved in his previous timeline.

He picked up the smallest bottle and turned it over thoughtfully in his hands. Not the wine, not the potion to return back, and most importantly, not poison.

His choice was made.

Turning, he placed one single wooden bowl onto the floor in a corner, and filled it with a strange kind of substance from a jar from his pouch. He returned the jar to where it came from.

Finally, Harry uncorked the crystal potion bottle, and poured its contents down his throat. Firmly, he stepped through the flames.

He arrived in the final room quietly, noting without surprise that Quirrell had apparently beaten him to the room by some time, but had not yet had the chance to grow frustrated with the mirror before him.

The man was prowling around in front of the mirror as Harry entered, peering closely at the ornate frame, but constantly glancing back into the glass towards the scene that the mirror apparently offered.

He spun around with a snarl as Harry stepped out of the flames.

"Harry Potter, I should have known," the turbaned man spat out. "Constantly causing me trouble, ignoring me in class. I've seen you silently judging me. I have rather longed for an opportunity to eliminate you for good."

Harry, wisely choosing not to exacerbate the danger, said nothing. He found to his surprise that now that he was here, in the chamber with Voldemort and his minion, his panicked heart rate and rapid breaths had slowed.

It had been the anticipation causing him to panic, or so it seemed. Now that he was here, in the moment, Harry found himself slipping back into the quiet space in his mind that disallowed emotions and distractions. He watched his teacher silently.

Quirrell seemed somewhat surprised. "What? No surprise? No horror? No shock that it was me all along, instead of one of those snivelling incompetents who call themselves teachers? Snape, perhaps? The students loathe him, I know, and believe him to be evil incarnate, or so I think. Hagrid? Bumbling fool that he is, surely he's let slip that he knows what secret hides in these chambers? You never pondered his half-blood agenda?"

Harry felt a small bubble of anger rise up in the back of his mind, but did not allow it to enter his quiet pool of consciousness.

Quirrell's face cleared.

"Ah. Clearly you're in shock. Horrified beyond belief, and stunned silly by what you have discovered _._ Pathetic. _"_

The Professor snapped his fingers, surrounding Harry with the familiar bonds of conjured rope, and then turned away from the teen, renewing his attention to the mirror.

After some minutes, he grew frustrated.

"I see it, I see it, but where is the key?" he muttered to himself. "I'm so close, so close, so _where is it hiding?_ "

Harry tried to remain unnoticed, but it was not to be.

A disturbingly familiar whisper echoed through the air, and Quirrell spun around.

"Potter," he snapped, clicking his fingers again. "Come here, and show me what you see."

Harry stood for a moment, allowing the conjured ropes to fall away from his body, before slowly approaching the mirror. His eyes fixed firmly on the ground, he positioned himself in the centre of the floor, before raising his eyes into the glass.

"What is it you see?" the other man demanded. "Speak, boy."

Harry gazed into the depths of the mirror. He was afraid that the mirror would try to return the stone to him, and was holding Dumbledore's words from Christmas close to his heart.

'Whatever I long for most strongly _in the moment_ will be shown to me.' He changed his mental mantra. 'I wish for the stone to remain in the mirror, I wish for the stone to remain in the mirror.'

Harry's eyes grew larger as he saw his own reflection stand alone in the depths of the glass. His heart thumped once, loudly, almost disturbing the calm in his mind, before his Occlumency reasserted itself. Harry watched as his reflection grinned at him, and put its hand into its pocket. Drawing it back out, a glowing red stone was held up for his inspection.

'I wish for the stone to remain in the mirror, I wish for the stone to remain in the mirror,' Harry thought carefully.

The reflection winked at him, and then carefully reached down with the stone in his hand, and pushed it down into the floor. The Philosopher's Stone pushed through the floor like a rock being forced into lava, and disappeared from sight.

His reflection pulled its hand back through the molten floor, and stood upright, hands now empty.

It smiled.

"I see Gryffindor winning the House Cup," Harry spoke with a sigh. "We've won the Quidditch Cup, and come first in points."

Quirrell scowled, and pushed Harry away from the mirror. He was muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath.

Harry stood there, unfettered, watching calmly as his DADA teacher failed to retrieve the stone.

Another a few more moments, a voice spoke from underneath the teacher's turban.

"Beware the boy," the low voice hissed. "There is something strange about the child. He is not afraid."

Quirrell jerked his head around with a start.

"Not afraid?" he repeated, aghast. "You stand here, Potter, in the presence of myself and my Master, two of the most cunning wizarding enemies you could hope to find, and you are _not afraid_? Are you demented?"

The two wizards shared a long glance, one still calm and unruffled, the other indignant.

Slowly, Quirrell drew himself up, and raised his arms to his turban.

"If I am not enough to alarm you, then allow me to present my Master, the greatest wizard of all time."

He began to unwind the fabric of his turban, and as the last of it fell away, Quirrell turned his back to Harry.

Harry's calm bubble of mental space was quivering with tension. He had not quite lost his control, but he felt threatened, and close to his breaking point.

Reliving this moment was more disturbing, more terrifying, than he had anticipated.

He stared at the deformed face for a moment, barely clinging on to his calm. If he lost control of his mind here, his plans would be ruined! Now would be the worst time to have his mind Legilimized! The weight of his success steadied Harry, and he slowly regained his equilibrium.

All that showed of his struggle was his appalled face, as he stared aghast at the red eyes, glowing out of white skin with demonic fury.

"Voldemort," he hissed, hatred and loathing echoing through the room. "You'd be better off dead."

Quirrell started to turn around, but the face on the back of his head beat him to it.

"But I survived," the dark lord spat. "Not dead, but not yet living, I have been cursed to this loathsome half-life for ten long years, because of you." He continued, "Mere shadow and vapour...formless and cursed...but building my power through loyal followers and Dark Arts, I have returned, child, in a manner that you, in your innocence and _purity_ " – he spat the word – "have no knowledge of.

"And yet," the voice continued, mesmerising. "Here we are. You are brave, I see. I always value bravery. Join me now, boy, or die a painful death."

Harry heard the words drop into the silence of his mind like droplets into a still pool. The surface rippled, but his calm returned, deeper and purer than anything else this night. His body leaned forward slightly.

"No."

Quirrell spun around furiously, wand arm rising, and Harry threw himself forward and onto the parasitic wraith before him. Quirrell's arm jerked, and spasmed, as Harry's hands reached his head.

Harry thrust his arms before him, blindly, aiming for the face or head or neck of the body before him. His hands met bare flesh – he must have succeeded – and the expected burning pain blossomed beneath his skin.

He was expecting it; he had experienced it before. But it was as bad as the Cruciatus.

Then a needle-sharp agony exploded beneath Harry's scar, the pain approached as if from a distance, and roared closer and closer to Harry's mind until it overwhelmed and destroyed his hard-won headspace.

Harry screamed as the pain lashed through the depths of his mind. His calm pool was gone, but he clung on to his consciousness. His mind was open to attack now, but he was still safe, as he grasped with desperate strength and managed to hold on to Quirrell's skin. His thoughts were empty of everything except pain, but dimly he heard an answering scream come from within his enemy.

The pain was horrendous, worse than he had remembered, but Harry's mind was stronger now.

Harry pushed and grasped and held, with all of his strength.

"Master, I cannot – I cannot – it burns!" Quirrell choked out, the skin on his chin, neck and one ear blistering and peeling with heat.

The man battered his arms towards Harry, but the boy pushed harder and harder, and would not be thrust away.

Quirrell was forced back into a wall, one arm pinned down, and flailed there. Despite his pain, Harry pressed his hands harder and harder into his enemy, fighting off the blackness that threatened to approach.

Stay conscious, press on.

He would have wondered where Dumbledore was, would have thought he was slow, but the pain filled his mind.

He might have wondered that Quirrell's screams had stopped, his voice choked off, but he could not think past the pain of his hands, and his head.

He held on as he heard the roar of the black flame flare back into existence, held on as he heard footsteps step through the threshold, and finally staggered back as the blue and gold of Dumbledore's long robes crept into the edge of his vision.

With a hoarse cry, Harry pushed away from Quirrell, and collapsed to the ground.

" _Accio stinksap_ ," he murmured, and passed out.

Harry's consciousness blinked in and out, and it felt like a short time before he was gently lifted and, with a minimum of jostling, poked and prodded and healed in the infirmary.

Madam Pomfrey clucked and scolded as she waved her wand over him, and forced bitter tasting potions down his throat. She exclaimed as she investigated his hands, cleansing them gently of the rough first aid sap he had covered them in, and instead gently covered his blistered hands in her own smelly goo, then wrapped them in gauze. Finally, she prodded a single piece of chocolate between his teeth, and left it to melt on his tongue.

He lay there, on the infirmary bed, drifting in and out of sleep.

Some time passed, and the busyness of the emergency descended into the stillness of the night.

Harry blinked awake when he became aware of the headmaster's presence resting in a chair beside him.

"Sir," Harry stuttered out, jerking somewhat in surprise.

Dumbledore waited patiently for his blundering arm to find his glasses, and leaned forward to settle the frames for him, when Harry banged his hand and hissed in pain. Eventually Harry's gaze found its focus.

"Harry," the man replied, serenely smiling. "Good morning. It's six o'clock, or thereabouts, and you've had a night's sleep, but let's stay calm and Madam Pomfrey won't throw me out."

Feeling unprepared and curiously off-balance, Harry rapidly pulled his mental defences together, and drifted back into that calm, undisturbed pool in his mind. He pushed a little niggle of something forgotten to the corner of his mind before focusing back on the conversation. Then he caught up with what the headmaster had just said, and grinned a little.

Dumbledore twinkled back.

"Are you well enough for some questions?" Dumbledore asked. "I have attempted to reconstruct the events of last night, but the complete truth, as ever, eludes me."

Harry relaxed into the pillows as he marshalled his thoughts.

It did not surprise him to discover that Dumbledore had already interviewed his dorm mates and friends, and spoken to Pookey, but his investigations had stopped there.

Harry paused a moment, before beginning. "Sir?" he asked. "I hope you didn't frighten Pookey too much? She was very nervous about disturbing you, but she was doing her best to help."

Dumbledore reassured him quickly. "Indeed, my boy, I have told her that she has been very helpful. Her input was most illuminating. But back to your story?"

And Harry began to narrate the events of his night.

The room grew brighter as the sun rose, and eventually Madam Pomfrey bustled back in with more potions.

Harry's story was paused while he drank more of the bitter brews, and then he answered the headmaster's questions about how he knew to follow Quirrell. The uncomfortable feeling of something not quite right continued to disturb him, but Harry shook the feeling off.

Harry, his Occlumency defences firmly in place, then picked up his narrative, fudging the truth as he went.

"I heard Snape and Quirrell argue, some, and realised that Quirrell wanted the stone. When I realised that Snape could not always watch him, I took to keeping guard over the door in the third corridor. So when I saw him go in, sir, I called Pookey, and then tried to stop him."

Dumbledore nodded sagely.

"Why did you ask Pookey for that ten-minute wait?"

Harry – who had completely forgotten that vital piece of information – paused for a moment. With the calmness of his mind, his panicked twitch came across as more of a thoughtful hesitation, or so he hoped.

He grasped for a response.

"I was hopeful that I had got it wrong," he finally suggested. "I thought that maybe he was just increasing the defences, or something, and so if I caught up with him and it was just a mistake, I could call Pookey back. But then I found him by the mirror, and he threatened me, and explained, and took off his turban, so I fought him as well as I could."

Dumbledore nodded gravely as his reply. "Indeed you did, dear boy. Professor Quirrell, you may have guessed, was beyond catatonic by the time I arrived to help you," he admitted. "He had failed in his task, his master foiled and furious, and was abandoned by the wraith when I arrived to foil his plan. Quirrell died, I'm afraid," Dumbledore admitted sadly. He quickly added on, "Although it was not your fault, my boy. You did everything you could, and you did the world a great service last night. Voldemort has escaped for now, but lost and weakened. You have bought us more time.

"And the stinksap?" he continued. "A most ingenious idea, Harry, although I have no idea how you knew you might need it."

Harry smiled a bit, and told, mostly, the truth. "Neville told me at Christmas it was used in emergency first aid. It was a last-minute decision, since I knew there must be…er…protections."

"And indeed there were," Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed there were."

Harry quirked the corner of his mouth into something that was not quite a smile. Dumbledore continued. "It sounds like young Mr Longbottom provided you with quite the support, my boy."

The fuzzy, uncertain feeling of something being slightly wrong snapped into focus suddenly. Harry felt the low rumble of building rage collect somewhere in his gut.

"No," Harry protested. "I'm mean, yes. He's been great this year, but he didn't know what I was doing."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dumbledore make a calming gesture.

"I understand, dear boy," Dumbledore said soothingly.

"He's just a child," Harry insisted, desperately repressing the fury building inside him.

"Now, now," Dumbledore hummed a disappointed sigh, and his gaze towards Harry became more stern. "He is certainly more sheltered than some, Harry. But never let yourself think that that means he has nothing to offer."

Harry felt a rushing, rhythmic thunder in his ears, and desperately tried to regain the pool of calm he had previously found so helpful. "He's a student! Eleven years old!" At a sudden, stinging pain, Harry realised that his fists were clenched tightly, and forced his fingers to open one by one. "This is his _school_. He should be kept safe here!"

"Oh. My apologies, my dear boy." Professor Dumbledore's stern face eased back into an apologetic smile. "I quite misunderstood. An old man's folly, I'm afraid. It is commendable of you to worry for your friends. It was fortunate indeed that I arrived back in time to keep your classmates safe. You will always be safe in Hogwarts, Harry."

"Just a child," Harry scowled stubbornly, but allowed himself to trail off into silence. His mind caught on Dumbledore's words.

 _Fortunate_. Harry bit back the words inside of him and focused on calming his breathing, slowing the beat of his pulse. _Safe in Hogwarts_. He watched detachedly as his gauzed fingers worked busily to smooth the wrinkles of his blankets. As he watched them dart about, Harry tried in vain to ignore the memories of death eaters and Dark Arts and torture that his friends had endured by his side for many years.

He had taken it for granted, always, that everything had been under Dumbledore's control. Yet now – after years of schooling, his own death in the forest, a whole year repeated, of secretly hiding, planning and becoming stronger – the thought emerged that Dumbledore should have done more to keep his friends safe. However, as Dumbledore looked curiously at Harry from his chair not two feet away, Harry knew now was not the time to explore this new thought. As Harry focussed, the burn of his anger slowly banked down into a small, smouldering heat, no longer as furious and fierce as before. This heat would endure.

With effort, Harry regained his apparent calm and glanced up at the man by his side. The headmaster was gazing at him with warm concern and mild worry.

"Sorry sir," Harry forced himself to say. "I don't want them to go through what I did last night."

"Quite understandable," the headmaster chuckled, to Harry's blank disbelief. "No child should have to face what you did in the dungeons last night."

Feeling his surging emotions rise up at the comment, Harry wisely kept his mouth shut.

Harry and Dumbledore sat in silence for a moment, each pondering their own complicated thoughts. Harry's mind worked quickly: how had he never realised that Hogwarts was _dangerous_ , after everything he had been through? Wasn't it Dumbledore's job to protect the school, not hide treasures from France, or hire Death Eaters and frauds? He felt the fury building inside him again, and quickly thought of other things.

Finally, Harry roused himself from his thoughts.

"And the stone, sir?"

"Ah," Dumbledore sighed. "Still safe, I am pleased to say. The protections on the mirror were most successful. A most ingenious idea, although I say it myself. It will remain within the mirror for now, I think, although perhaps in a different location. So we have both done well," he smiled at Harry.

Harry, pushing his concerns aside for now, carefully nodded.

They spoke more, quietly, about less weighty things, before the room was warm and the castle began to bustle with life.

Harry's thoughts drifted to his body, and more specifically, his injuries. His memories might still be fuzzy with time, but he knew for a fact that last time this had happened he had been unconscious for long enough to miss the quidditch match. His magic had been grown far stronger that it had last time, grown as fast as he could push it. And his mind was stronger too – seven extra years of life experience meant he was harder to shock, now. Perhaps that had had something to do with his rapid recovery? And maybe the stinksap had worked?

"Er, Professor," Harry glanced up as though an urgent thought occurred to him. "You said I had a night's sleep? So it's tomorrow?"

"Why, yes, Harry. It is indeed tomorrow. Or, more specifically, Friday morning. Was there something…?"

"If I'm well enough to go class today, sir, do you think I might be well enough for Quidditch on Saturday?"

He might be older and wiser, but now that Voldemort was dealt with for the year, his priority was the Quidditch Cup. He looked at Dumbledore hopefully.

"Well, Harry," Dumbledore pursed his lips. "I do realise that I have a somewhat exaggerated reputation, but just between you and me I must confess I have never managed to get the better of Madam Pomfrey yet."

"Well," said Harry, "I guess I'd better get moving then."

He persuaded Dumbledore, and Madam Pomfrey, that he felt well enough to go down to the Hall for breakfast. The matron grumbled, but given that he was awake and lucid, finally released him with the strict conditions to return to the infirmary for regular check-ups, any sign of pain, and the promise of an early night.

Out of sight of the infirmary, around the corner, Harry checked himself down. After his adrenaline filled adventure overnight, his body was in surprisingly good condition. A little muscle stiffness in his arms and shoulders, the lingering remains of a headache behind his eyes, and he was almost back to normal already. It was nothing, after fifth year. Or in comparison to what would have been his seventh year. All he really had to worry about were the burns on his hands from where he had apparently immolated Quirrell. It was a little worrying in regards to Quidditch, but since Madam Pomfrey could regrow his bones overnight, a little skin seemed quite manageable.

All he had to do was make it through the day. His newly discovered anger would also have to wait until evening.

Having patted himself down and finding himself all in order, Harry dashed back to Gryffindor Tower to change before breakfast.

He met his Neville and Hermione at their usual seat at the table, and joined them despite their curious looks.

"You're later than normal," Hermione noted, and Neville hummed a little in agreement.

"Sorry," Harry cheerfully admitted. "I had a bit of an accident and needed to get my hands gauzed up." He waved his bandaged appendages in front of his friends, and then frowned when they struggled to pick up the bacon. "Huh. Hang on a bit."

Their worries put aside until Harry served his breakfast satisfactorily – he had to go for porridge, in the end, since the bacon just wasn't going to cooperate – and he faced their questions calmly.

"Sorry Hermione, it was nothing urgent otherwise I promise I would have told you. Yes Neville, they hurt a bit, and are quite irritating to use at the moment – " he waved his porridge spoon around to illustrate his point, "but are not actually a serious problem. I fell over going down some stairs and skinned my palms a little on the stone. I'm hoping I'll get the bandages off tonight."

He went over the story again when Ron arrived, and again when Oliver Wood and the twins came over to investigate their pet Seeker.

"I'll be fine," Harry assure them all. "I'll be as good as new by this evening at the latest, and it won't be a problem for the game. Would I do that to you?"

He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that told him, yes, that was exactly what he had done to them in the previous timeline, but then Dumbledore stood up at the front of the room and addressed the school.

"It is my sad duty to inform you," Dumbledore began with a sombre tone. "That due to a series of unfortunate occurrences and some terrible luck, Professor Quirrell passed away during the night. We will miss his contributions to the school, and send our best wishes to the parents he leaves behind. All Defence Against the Dark Arts classes will be cancelled for the rest of the year. Please speak to your Head of House if you need counselling or support."

"What do you think actually happened?" Ron asked curiously as soon as Dumbledore sat down. "D'you reckon a vampire got him after all?"

From the sudden development of murmurs and whispers around the room, Harry realised that all the students were at this moment creating their own interpretation of events. He was watching the infamous Hogwarts rumour mill in action.

"Nonsense," said Hermione. "Professor Dumbledore said it was a series of unfortunate events. Perhaps he was…on duty at night, and Peeves surprised him, so he tripped over Mrs Norris when he backed up and fell down some stairs." Harry eyes her in surprise. She flushed, and continued, "Or something like that anyway. I'm sure the explanation is, although tragic, something mundane and commonplace that could happen to anyone. Poor Professor Quirrell. He always tried his best to teach, despite his nerves."

Harry remained quiet and listened to the gossip around him. Astonishingly, although rumours of Professor Quirrell's mysterious death spread so fast that Harry could see them sprouting up in the Great Hall before his eyes, there was not one hint of anything connecting Harry to the nights events. Not even anxious Neville or attentive Hermione mentioned anything to Harry about him coincidentally injuring his hands during the same night.

Only Neville even brought up the events of earlier in the year, as he leaned over his toast as the Hall murmured, and muttered to Harry, "I guess this means you're safe from him now, then?"

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice, and had to cough it down before he replied. "I guess." He had to clear his throat, before adding cheerfully, "It couldn't have happened to a better wizard, at any rate."

Hermione overheard. "Harry Potter! You should know better than to speak ill of the dead like that. I know you think he had something against you, and something strange was certainly going on with your broomstick in that match, but having thought the issue over in the past few months, I've realised it's quite possible that the charms were suffering some kind of intermittent malfunction. That's far more likely than poor Professor Quirrell hating a first-year student so much he attempted murder. I'm sure the Professor never did anything to earn your suspicions, and now he's dead, and you'll never get the chance to correct your misunderstandings."

She probably continued, but Harry tuned her scolding out in the interests of good food, mental health, and quick healing.

The last of the week's classes came and went, and with a good deal of luck, an embarrassing amount of pleading, and a promise to keep the game short, Madam Pomfrey deigned to allow Harry to go out for the last Quidditch game of the year, and win the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor. Professor Snape was in a black, black mood for the next few days.

Then, after a couple of good nights of sleep, and a wildly enjoyable feast, Harry celebrated a Gryffindor House Cup win with his friends as well, back in the common room.

He was bounced around near the centre of the proceedings for many minutes, as the Quidditch Cup points had counted greatly towards their final success. Watching his friends continue to celebrate as the evening grew later, Harry snuck quietly out of the common room and into his bed. He was not in the mood for celebrations anyway: the emotions he had recently discovered in regards to Dumbledore had withstood his Occlumency practice of a couple of days, becoming more compact and grudging instead of disappearing, quite ruining his mood to party. Harry would have to deal with it later. Nevertheless, he spent some time before sleep sorting out his memories, storing and organising and protecting them from intruders, before gently dropping off.

The rest of the year passed quickly.

Harry's hands healed rapidly with the help of Madam Pomfrey's ministrations, with no scarring or stiffness or pain. His friends, as careful and aware of Harry as they ever were, nevertheless failed to see there was more to his story, and attributed his remaining tiredness to end-of-year exhaustion.

The exam results came back quicker than Harry expected. Sitting on the common room couch, with Hermione's eyes sparkling at him from above her small, awkward smile, Harry clutched his results tightly in his hands. Even with his improving mental control, he could not stifle the sense of anticipation. How far had he progressed this year? Harry glanced at his marks.

For a moment, he could not help but feel like his whole trip back in time had been one long dream. Hermione was once again top student, beating Harry's own score by a good, wide margin.

He blinked, and looked at their marked exam scripts again.

She had definitely done well in all the practicals. There were her percentages written in green ink on the collection of manuscripts in front of him. 92% for Charms, 96% for Transfiguration…but it was the theory where she excelled. 112%, 108%, 114%...she even managed 102% in Defence.

He glanced quickly at his own marks. 100% in practically all the practical exams, but only 80-90% in the theory. Aside from DADA of course, where he had a particularly grand, swirly script declaring '134%' at the top of his manuscript. He wondered if Dumbledore had marked the exam.

Hermione tried to hide her smile as she saw him peek her way.

"Well done, Harry! You've got some really good grades there," she managed, incredibly not looking smug at all.

"Thanks," Harry replied dryly. "They're nothing compared to yours."

"Well," she did her best to brush off the compliment. "You worked really hard, and we could see how much effort you put in. I think these are wonderful marks for you to get. Are you…are you not happy with them?"

"You knew this would happen," Harry could not help but accuse her, only partly in jest.

Hermione blinked. "Well, I don't know what kind of things you look for in those books you read, but I've watched you do your homework all year. You just don't do class theory, Harry. I've never seen anyone pick up spells like you, and I've been asking the older students, but you never break it down and understand the history, the logic, the…the theory. Not of the classwork. You go off on your wildly exciting tangents all the time! But this is a really good effort despite that. You've probably beaten half of Ravenclaw like this. And I know you got the top score in Defence. That's really incredible."

 _Half of Ravenclaw._ Harry could feel his face slowly flush.

He had been so sure all year that he had all the advantages: age, experience, practice. When instead he was probably sitting in or around the top twenty percent of first year students.

He had been convinced it was impossible for him to be beaten by a twelve-year-old in subjects he had taken twice.

Hermione obviously read his expression because her tone changed a little, and she hurried to encourage him.

"I'm sure with a bit of practice you can catch up next year," she offered. "I can help you with the second-year homework. And I'll make you a study schedule. We can work towards the exams together. Would that be nice?"

Harry thanked her politely, but inside he felt resigned. All the theory of next year would be based off the theory of this one. If he didn't revise over the holidays, he'd be even further behind when school started.

And it wasn't even a pride thing. Much a pride thing, he admitted to himself grudgingly. It was more that if first years could beat him, Voldemort was a sure thing.

He resigned himself to a long, hard summer of work.

Before he knew it, they were standing on the platform at King's Cross Station, classmates with heavy trunks and excited family slowly filtering through the barrier into the muggle world.

Harry waited in the queue with his friends.

"You must come and stay these holidays," said Ron. "All of you, I suppose." He nodded awkwardly towards Hermione. "I'll send you all an owl."

"That would be great," said Harry, relaxing into the familiar pattern of conversation with his friends. "Maybe a few days at the end of summer?"

Neville and Hermione added their confirmations.

People jostled them as the crowd moved slowly forward. A number of classmates and housemates called their goodbyes from ahead of the friends.

Harry answered them gladly.

Finally, they were through, and Ron's mother and sister met them on the other side. After a few greetings, Neville and his grandmother disappeared, Hermione and her parents also said their goodbyes and Harry backed away from the Weasley clan chaos, heading alone for the nearby taxi stands.

With a small backwards smile for his friends and a special smile for little Ginny, Harry strode off calmly. Only a short time left, and he would be back at the Dursley's, and Harry was looking forward to the summer. He'd had a whole year to plan.


	16. Author's note

Many thanks for reading my story, Harry Potter and the Ticket Backwards. I am happy to tell you that I have already written up until the end of Year Three, and that the changes in Harry's timeline will become more obvious and interesting as things develop. I am currently seeing my Year Two undergo massive editing, but am finally happy with the first six chapters and will be ready to upload them soon.

However. I don't know what to call Harry's next year! If anyone has any ideas, please 'review', and leave me your suggestions so that I can take them into consideration. (All other reviews are also welcome – I hadn't realised that when fanfiction authors said they are 'encouraging' and 'motivating', they really meant 'incredibly encouraging, even when the creative muses have abandoned you' and 'motivate you by filling you with enthusiasm, excitement and the urgent desire to meet positive expectations immediately'.) I'll keep working, and you can see this soon.

Many thanks.

Update: Thanks again for your continued support, and please check out Harry Potter and the Best Laid Plans. The first few chapters are finally up!


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